


Dark Blue

by that_which_yields



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff and Angst, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Plot With Porn, Rockstar AU, misunderstandings and miscommunications
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-16 08:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_which_yields/pseuds/that_which_yields
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duo Maxwell is Shinigami, the L2 orphan who was swept off the streets of his home colony to become the lead singer and guitarist of the chart topping rock band, Gundam Pilots. Heero Yuy is a successful but reclusive computer programmer, happy to live out his days in relative solitude. When Heero's coworkers accidentally win him VIP tickets to a Gundam Pilots concert, what will Shinigami make of this handsome yet strangely reticent mystery?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sugar, We're Going Down

**Author's Note:**

> I promise, this will have considerably less angst than MFM. Still angst, because let's be real, fluff and butterflies don't make for a very long story. And better yet, we have a sexy rockstar Duo frequently clad in leather and a starstruck Heero. 
> 
> I would like to blame ellewrites for this plotbunny. So if you don't like it, you know who to rage at, and if you do like it, you know who to thank. ;)

Duo Maxwell hears the phone ring in the other room as he leans in toward the light bulb-haloed mirror in front of him. His heart-shaped lips part slightly as he raises the eyeliner toward his left eye, lining the amethyst orb with a streak of ebony liquid. He notices his mouth open as he finishes the line with a small flourish and chuckles quietly to himself. It must be some sort of rule that no one could put on eye makeup without looking like a dumbfounded fish. The door creaks open behind him as he is drawing down his other eyelid, and he murmurs an inquiry at the mirror.

“Duo, phone’s for you.”

“Gimme.”

His bassist appears beside him, silvery blond hair tossed effortlessly across his brow. Duo drops the eyeliner onto the cluttered surface of the desk and spins his chair, running one long-fingered hand down the other boy’s arm. The boy gives him a warning look, softened somewhat by the innocence of his features, and plucks his arm from Duo’s playful grasp. He folds the phone into Duo’s hand and turns to go, shifting himself quickly out of the way as Duo swats at him.

Duo spins back to the mirror, grinning at his reflection as he tucks the phone between his shoulder and ear.

“Shini here, shooting star of rock, billionaire playboy, and all over intensely attractive dude. How may I serve you today?”

“Duo.” A man’s voice drifts over the phone lines, dry but not unamused.

“Zechsy! ‘s great to hear from ya!”

“And it’s a pleasure to hear your voice, as always. Listen… that Home for Every Child charity has been increasing their campaign efforts. You know they want you for that auction event that they hold every year. You’re their idea of a perfect poster child.”

A frown creases Duo’s face, carefully shaped eyebrows drawing together. The piercing through his left brow twitches with the sudden movement, ring twisting crookedly, and he absently reaches up to straighten it. “You know I don’t do that stuff,” he says quietly.

“Usually I would accept that answer, Duo, but they’re extremely persistent. I’m not sure it will look good for you to continue to refuse, especially with your background…”

“I don’t give a damn about my background, Milliardo. I’m not going to pose on a stage for a bunch of rich bitches to throw money at me. And I’m certainly not going to sell myself, even for a night, no matter how much good the charity does,” Duo’s voice has dropped to a growl, his free hand curled into a tight fist.

There’s a pause, as the man processes his sudden irritation. Duo only calls him by his formal name when he is crossing the line from playful into legitimate anger. “Just think about it, Duo. I’ll talk to you again after the show. I’m sure you need to be getting ready,” Milliardo Peacecraft’s voice is low, soothing, and Duo knows that the discussion is hardly over.

“Whatever,” he snarls, and he slams the phone down.

He props his elbows on the table, scattering the myriad of products that transform him from Duo Maxwell, L2 orphan and street rat, into Shinigami, God of Death, singer and lead guitarist of the Gundam Pilots. Dropping his head into his hands, he lets his eyes slide closed and laces his fingers through his hair, uncaring of the gel that streaks his skin. He knows that he’s wrecking an hour of careful preparation, wrestling his three feet of hair into a concert-appropriate creation, but at the moment he couldn’t care less.

A tentative tap sounds at the door and he grunts his acknowledgement, peering at the mirror through his fingers. Quatre slips in again, concern written in his gentle blue eyes. He nervously adjusts the deep blue vest hugging his torso as he pads across the room, settling into a chair beside Duo.

“I hear the phone hit the desk… again. Everything okay?”

Duo lifts his head with a soft sigh, fixing his eyes on the mirror as he attempts to remedy the damage to his bangs. “Yeah….. no. Peacecraft wants me to go through with that charity thing… the auction thing… the, ya know, look pretty so people buy a couple of hours with you.” He snorts. “Wu’s decided that Imma cheap hooker. Or a not-so-cheap hooker, as there’s sposed to be some high rollers at this stupid event.”

“Oh, Duo… I know you don’t necessarily want to expose that part of your history, but you have to give them a reasonable answer. It might be time to just tell them.”

“I am not going to tell those bloodthirsty sharks that I was almost sold into child slavery on L2!” Duo’s eyes are lit with fury and disbelief that one of his closest friends, one of the few that knows his secrets, would even suggest that.

“If you would let me finish…” Quatre continues mildly, unaffected by Duo’s outburst or violent expression. Duo waves a hand in reluctant capitulation, and Quatre tilts his head in wry acknowledgement. “I was going to say that it might be time for you to reveal your sexuality. They can’t expect you to date a female if your tastes clearly lie in the other direction.”

Duo forgets what he is doing and runs a hand through his bangs, eyes wide with frustration. “That’ll be more trouble than it’s worth, Quat. Part of the reason I’m so popular is because all the ladies think they have a happily ever after with me. I won’t have a snowball’s chance in hell if I let them down.”

Quatre smiles slightly. “I think you’ll find that your female fans are more than willing to delude themselves. They’ll just have to change from ‘he’ll pick me above all other women’ to ‘I’ll be the only women he ever chooses, because I’m so beautiful that he forgets he’s gay’. You just have to put a different spin on it.”

Duo rolls his eyes, spinning a tube of lipstain between his fingers. He glances down at it, pulling the top off, and then drops his mouth open to brush the crimson color across his bottom lip. Pressing his lips together, he pops them apart. “You’re right, Q. I’m just that sexy.” He mimes a kiss at his bass player, grinning mischievously as a blush rises on the other boy’s cheeks. He would never endanger the relationship between Quatre and his drummer, but he just couldn’t resist teasing the boy. Something about the charming naiveté just made it too easy.

“You’re better go get yourself and your lover boy ready,” Duo murmurs, beginning to strip off his shirt. He snickers as he hears the door open and shut rather quickly. Quatre had such a strange sense of morals. He was completely uninhibited around his partner, Gundam’s drummer, but God forbid anyone other than Trowa show some skin. Then again, Duo muses, it was kind of cute… loyalty and fierce possessiveness and all that jazz.

Pausing in front of the mirror, he glances over his shoulder at his back, pulling his braid over his shoulder to drape across his bare chest. Lines of ebony ink streak across his pale skin, stark outline of batwings stretching over the length of his back. The edges of the wings dip beneath the waist of his pants, shadowed and strung with gleaming chains. A sad smile touches the edges of his lips, the sorrow deepening as he turns to see the elaborate cross etched on his bicep. Wings for death and cross for life, though at this point they almost match as far as the deeper meaning is concerned. He runs his fingers over the sharp, elegant edges of the cross, eyes half-closing in pain. He murmurs the names of each memory as they drift across his mind, tiny faces with such sad, agonized eyes. As always, he ends with the same name. _Solo_.

Shaking himself free of the drowning-deep waters of his past, he shrugs a skintight shirt on, fabric clinging to his lean body. A low v slashes the fabric in front, revealing the hint of a scar on his chest. He tugs the shirt over to cover the chalk-white line, reaching over to the chair to pick up a pair of decadently soft leather pants. He begins the painstaking process of wiggling into them, as they fit like a second skin, practically painted onto his muscular legs. He’s afraid that one of these days he will split the seams, but it hasn’t happened yet.

He slides a metal cuff up onto his unadorned bicep and straps a thick leather band around each wrist, small spikes gleaming on the heavy bracelets. Glancing in the mirror, he adjusts the line of rings running up the shell of one ear, the matte black cross dangling from the other ear. His face falls for a moment as he takes in the whole picture. A pretty little sex god, lips lined in carmine, purple eyes glinting from a haze of black shadow, body hugged by black fabric that leaves little to the imagination… _All of this, pretty little mask. Not bad for a homeless brat from the poorest, most forgotten colony. Well, not so poor since they dragged me from the garbage and realized it might look good for the top of the charts rock star to have a less illicit hometown. Still… none of them have any idea. They want this body, but they have no idea what it would cost them. They don’t call me God of Death without reason_.

Duo sighs, mood plunging again as he plops gracelessly onto the cushioned chair. He stretches out one leg, shoving his foot into the knee-high leather boots that complete his outfit. He’ll be sweating bullets by the end of the first song, but Zechs would be horrified if he ever suggested that basketball shorts and a pair of Converse would suit him just fine. Lacing up the boot with quick, decisive movements, he eyes the clock and shakes his head. Just about showtime.

Closing his eyes once more, he lets the hum of a phantom crowd run through him, manic energy rising in his veins like an eager lioncub. When he opens the violet orbs once more, they are lit with anticipation, his face alight with animation and excitement. There is a certain feral darkness lifting from his skin, a certain devious sensuality in the way he rises from the chair and stretches, spine popping with the motion. He stalks towards the door, footsteps silent, and pauses to reverently lift his guitar from its stand by the door. It is battered, surface shined up as best as it could be, marred with scrapes and scratches. He runs a hand lovingly down the neck and lifts it to his lips, whispering that last name again. _Solo. It’s always for you, buddy._

 

* * *

 

The first time Heero Yuy hears of the Gundam Pilots, he is running all-out on a treadmill at the gym. It’s three o’clock in the morning, and it isn’t the first time that his insomnia has made him grateful for the invention of 24-hour gyms. There’s no one else around, and Heero is stripped down to shorts and running shoes, body moving like a well-oiled machine as he paces on the endlessly circling belt. Sweat gleams on the tanned surface of his chest, trickling down the crevices of his constantly shifting muscles. The tiny screen attached to the treadmill rumbles in the background, bass humming through the headphones he’s plugged into the machine. He’d left it on the music channel, as he only uses it as background noise. He’s zoned out, focused on each measured intake of breath, each rapid beat of his heart.

He’s beginning to come down from his full speed when a heavy, addicting beat slams down the line into his ears, and his eyes flick to the screen as the video starts. The screen goes black, and if not for the hypnotic beat rumbling through the headphones he would have assumed that it was broken. A single spotlight flicks on, screen panning up the leather-clad back of a single figure. Heero’s feet slow as his eyes take in the slender but well-muscled legs and the quite frankly decadent ass, poured into a pair of low-slung crimson jeans. The tail end of an insanely long braid brushes against the person’s tailbone, swaying slightly as the camera pauses on hips that have begun to twist back and forth, slow, tantalizing circles that leave Heero’s mouth dry.

His hand reaches out to lower the treadmill’s speed, acknowledging that his focus has been completely eclipsed by the video in front of him. The view pans up, following the twisted strands of hair, revealing a back that is bare except for one of the most intense tattoos that Heero has ever seen. He doesn’t generally find tattoos appealing, having seen many that are distasteful and poorly done, but the dark ink highlights the shifting muscles of the man’s back in an incredible way. At least Heero assumes that the figure is a man, considering that he doesn’t think media has evolved so far as to allow a topless woman on a popular music network.

Heero’s guess is confirmed as the man turns his head, flicking a seductive gaze over his shoulder at the camera. Heero stumbles on the belt beneath his feet as the strangely colored eyes seem to bore straight into his own, and the man’s tongue flicks out to slowly trace his reddened lips. He jumps his feet to the unmoving sides of the treadmill, lifting his bottle of water to his lips and taking a long drink. His respiration is still accelerated, and he can hear his pulse pounding in his ears. A frown creases his face as he monitors his vital signs, noting that they should have been down to his resting rate by now.

All thoughts fly out of his head as the man turns fully around on the screen, revealing a sinfully muscled torso. The man runs a hand slowly down his chest, fingers dancing teasingly down his abdominals. Heero swallows painfully, mouth dry again, and curses his body’s involuntary reactions. So many years of being completely undistracted by the people around him, and he is unmanned in an instant by a half-clad pretty boy in a music video. The long-haired figure on the screen drops his hand to the noticeable bulge in his jeans, winks one black-rimmed eye, and rolls his hips into his palm with a distinctly heated expression on his heart-shaped face. Just as Heero is convinced that this awkward moment couldn’t possibly get any worse, those crimson lips part and the man begins to sing. His voice is like oil slicked over steel, a low rumble that shoots straight through Heero’s veins.

He fumbles with the headphones, yanking the end out of the connector, eyes absently noting the song information as it pops up on a corner of the screen. The man is twining himself around the mic stand, fingers sliding down the metal length, and Heero slams his hand down on the buttons, fumbling until the screen fades to black. He drops his head, chest heaving, and picks up his towel in shaking hands to wipe his face and chest. _Ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous. He’s bred for sex appeal, that’s all. It’s not unreasonable that I’ve reacted to carefully planned marketing._

* * *

 

 

Heero sits down at his desk, rolling the chair in toward his computer. The tech floor is quiet, a pre-workday silence settled over the empty cubicles. He’s one of the highest level programmers, so he’d been gifted a coveted corner desk with a view of the waking city beneath him. He would have been in a higher position, in an office with a door and a suite of windows, but he chose to stay out of the spotlight. He much preferred to be left in peace to do his programming and software repairs than to be buried in the administrative nonsense that came with being head of the department.

His desk is empty, cleared of the clutter and photo frames that litter the desks of his coworkers. Visitors often assume that his desk is empty, are startled to find that a long-time employee of the company occupies the space. It amuses him, in a strange sort of way. He doesn’t feel the need to keep the reminders of what is important to him in physical form, displayed for any passing stranger to see. He doesn’t have anyone to keep photographs of, anyway. His closest friend is Wufei, but he would find it somewhat awkward to have a framed portrait of a friend on his desk… not to mention that he’d have to field questions of whether or not they were lovers. Techies are surprisingly open-minded, and the teasing wouldn’t be about his sexuality so much as they would be about the fact that he had a sex life at all. Still, it wasn’t something that he wanted to deal with.

And beside that… he offers a wave over the side of his cubicle as Wufei strolls into the still abandoned office. They are always the first two to arrive. Wufei has been his best friend since college, ever since he rescued their computer science teacher from Heero’s scathing assessment of their insufficient technology. It had only been the first week of school, but the teacher had little true knowledge of the inner workings of computers and, well, Heero had never suffered fools gladly. Wufei had pulled him aside, suggested that he speak to the dean about being excused from the class, since he clearly didn’t need to be taking it, and explained that professors generally didn’t take it well when their students had superiority complexes.

Yet it went even deeper than that. Heero and Wufei had bonded over their mutual interest in the complexities of computer programming and gradually moved onto spending time together when not actively involved in classwork… though Heero was always carrying around some sort of textbook, and Wufei rarely went anywhere without a tablet filled with digital copies of his class notes. It only took a few breaks before Wufei noticed that Heero never left the campus to go home. He’d cornered Heero after Thanksgiving, when he’d inquired about the other boy’s holiday only to discover that Heero had spent the week holed up in his room.

Heero shakes his head, remembering Wufei’s quiet horror at hearing that Heero didn’t have anywhere to go. Wufei had insisted that Heero come home with him for the winter break, and Heero had reluctantly agreed, since Wufei didn’t seem inclined to let him stay without a fight. Wufei’s family had taken Heero under their extensive wings as another son, giving Heero the first family he’d had in over a decade. The L1 foster system had ridded itself of him at the first available opportunity, shipping him off to college on earth as soon as he’d been granted a generous scholarship. He didn’t have any family to speak of, having lost his parents at a young age. No foster family would touch him. He was violent, anti-social, and saw no reason to tone down his intelligence to suit the lesser brains of the people around him. L1 housed him, educated him, and encouraged him to go as far away from them as possible.

It still stung a little bit, that utter rejection. It almost wiped out the fond memories of his parents, the accepting environment, the encouragement to learn everything he could get his hands on. And when he came to them with some impossible tidbit about evolution or physics, they were never horrified that it was beyond their comprehension or beyond his age. They were only proud that their son was so brilliant. They were always proud…

“…Heero.”

He lifts his head, startling a little bit. Peeking his head over the edge of the cubicle, he notes that most of his coworkers have finally arrived and seem to be gathered around Noin’s desk. Wufei waves him over, and he stirs from his chair to join the group of people. Hanging back a little bit, mindful of his need for personal space, he shifts until he can see the computer screen. The few girls in their tech group are gathered closest, giggling to each other and pointing at the figures in the video. The men hang back, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, trying to avoid watching the people on the screen. He leans in to get a better view, pushing down his discomfort at the proximity to the women, and quickly realizes why none of the males are interested. Standing up slowly, resisting the urge to jerk away from the scene as if stung by a horsefly, he turns toward the men gathered at the edge of the cubicle.

One of them jerks his hand at the speakers, avoiding looking at the screen. “I’m not much for the video, ‘cause, you know, I’m not into that, but the music is pretty good.”

The others mumble agreement and Heero nods stiffly. Noin turns around, lifting eager eyes to their uncomfortable group, and a grin lights her face. “What’s wrong, boys? Threatened that he’s prettier than you and still has women flocking to his side?”

Heero grunts, some of the others grumble in irritation. Wufei casts an annoyed glance at his girlfriend Sally, who is still enraptured by the figure on the screen. “I’m not threatened by anyone. He’s attractive and walks around half-naked. Of course women are going to be drawn to him,” he comments snidely.

Reno elbows Heero, a smirk curling his face. “What do you think, Heero? Are you a fan of the oh-so-stunning Shinigami? This heavy rock music is your type of thing, isn’t it?”

Though Heero usually tolerates their joking, he twitches away from the contact and levels a glare at the other man. They’re always commenting on the fact that they’ve never heard him talk about a girlfriend. The fact that he is constantly turning away overtures from Relena, a pretty girl who works with the public relations section of their international company.

“Maybe he’s a little starstruck,” Drake comments, eyeing Heero’s ever more rigid stance. “Heero, I’ve heard Relena is planning on going into politics. Maybe you’ll climb her once she starts climbing the ladder, eh?”

Heero snorts underneath his breath, easing up once the topic has turned away from the lithe figure shimmying on the computer. “I’d rather die,” he mutters, face expressionless, but the mood lightens as the tension drains away.

Their boss drifts onto the floor and people begin to dissipate, moving back to their own work with an absent sort of purpose. Lady Une is relaxed on most days and generally gives warning on her off-days. They call those ‘glasses days’. When the Lady appears on the floor with her hair up and her glasses on, it’s going to be a rough day for the tech crew. Today she sweeps a genial smile over their early morning gathering and leans over the back of Noin’s chair to watch a clip of the video.

“I haven’t heard this song yet. Did you hear that the Gundam Pilots are coming into town soon?” The women murmur excitedly at the news, and as Heero sinks into his chair he hears the frantic tapping of keys from Noin’s corner.

He can’t help keeping an ear on their conversation as he opens his email, watching the new messages flood in. Dorothy’s voice rises above the hum of discussion. “It says that they’re holding a contest… offering VIP tickets… backstage passes.” The voices meld back together again, rising and falling in eager repartee. Heero shakes his head, violently, telling himself that he is absolutely not interested in Shinigami or the Gundam Pilots or how exactly he fits into those scandalously tight pants…

Another email pops up on his screen.

 

_From: Chang Wufei_

_Subject: Closets and Pilots_

_Come out, come out wherever you are. I saw the way you jumped away from that screen. You’re allowed to like people, you know. It won’t kill you to be a normal human being._

 

He grins. No one but Wufei would dare mention anything of the sort to him. He suspects that most of the floor assumes that he is asexual or secretly gay, since they’ve never seen him show anything but disinterest in women… or other people, for that matter. No one would ask him, particularly not at work, and he makes a point of avoiding his coworkers outside of the tech floor. The tech group at Alliance Corps. is a close-knit group. They always make an attempt to invite Heero out for drinks or over for barbeques in the summer, and Heero will allow Wufei to drag him along every once in a blue moon. But honestly, Heero doesn’t see much of a point in letting work friends get into his personal business. The last thing he needs is rumors at work to distract from him doing his job.

He hits reply and types in only three words. As the response pops up on the opposite side of a cubicle, he hears Wufei’s quiet laugh. _Fuck off, Chang_.

 

_From: Chang Wufei_

_Subject: Closets are for clothes, not for people_

_Your birthday is coming up, Yuy. Watch out that someone doesn’t enter you in that contest._

Heero’s eyes widen in alarm. _Don’t you dare._ He snaps back, sending the message with a decisive poke of his mouse. He doesn’t get a response, and a frown tugs down the corners of his lips. A tiny voice in his head whispers that it wouldn’t mind meeting Shinigami, and he shoves it ruthlessly aside before it can manifest more images of that silken hair, the high cheekbones, the muscles moving restlessly beneath a pattern of wings… he makes a low click at the back of his throat, a frustrated noise, realizing that he had a mound of emails waiting to be read while he was dwelling on the appearance of a certain rockstar.


	2. Blurred Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duo Maxwell is Shinigami, the L2 orphan who was swept off the streets of his home colony to become the lead singer and guitarist of the chart topping rock band, Gundam Pilots. Heero Yuy is a successful but reclusive computer programmer, happy to live out his days in relative solitude. When Heero's coworkers accidentally win him VIP tickets to a Gundam Pilots concert, what will Shinigami make of this handsome yet strangely reticent mystery?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is over 5000 words but I couldn't find a good place to split it. I hope y'all enjoy!

The door to the back room of the tour bus creaks open, and the blond bassist peers around the corner. A pile of blankets covers a human-sized lump on the bed, a lump that doesn’t stir as the boy pushes the door fully open. A hand is draped over the side of the bed, fingers dangling limply over the neck of a battered black guitar.

“Duo?”

The blankets shift a hint, exposed fingers twitch. The strings of the guitar hum as the hand scrapes across them, and the figure on the bed abruptly sits up, stilling the discordant sound. Duo’s long braid swings into his lap, fluffed up and frizzed in every direction. He picks up the guitar, running his hand reverently over the neck before stroking the many battered places on the body. Glancing up at Quatre, he offers a cheeky grin and lets a chord ring out into the small room before he carefully places the guitar on the bed beside him.

“Hey Quat, what’s up?” Duo glances out the window, sees a white-fenced pasture flickering by. “Where are we?”

Quatre stoops by the window, brushing a wisp of hair away from his eyes. He stares quietly at the scenery for a moment, as if the field is going to give him an idea of their location. Duo watches him, an amused smile playing about his face. He pulls the tie from his braid and begins to untangle the mass of mahogany locks, frowning as he hits a snag. The other boy had turned around and was observing the process, still strangely silent. Resigned to needing a brush and possibly a shower to manage his braid, Duo flicks up his eyes to meet Quatre’s solemn blue gaze.

“Quat, what is it?”

“We’re passing through Maryland now, I think. We’re still a while away from New York.”

“That’s not why you’re bein’ all dark and mysterious. You didn’t wake me up to tell me I could sleep for another six hours. C’mon Quat, what’s wrong?”

“That contest we were running, for that next show in the city…” Duo sucks in a breath, the air hissing through his teeth. His face pales, violet eyes widening. Quatre winces, watching the blood drain from his friend’s face, and takes a tentative step forward. He places a sympathetic hand on Duo’s shoulder as he finishes his sentence. “Someone won it. They’ll be backstage at that show.”

Duo curses under his breath, throwing the blankets off of his legs. He drags a pair of worn flannel pajama pants on over his boxers and begins to pace the confines of the space, half-unbraided hair tumbling in a tangle down to his tailbone. Quatre partially turns himself away, staring out the window once more, respectful of Duo’s naked chest and dangerously low-hanging pants.

“Who is it?” Duo finally asks, voice quiet and wary.

Quatre tugs a sheet of paper out of the back pocket of his jeans, unfolding it and squinting down at the black text. A tiny grin tugs at the corner of Duo’s mouth, his mood lightening slightly. He always teases Quatre about needing to use reading glasses, something that the other boy is deadset against ever doing. With a grunt of frustration, Quatre tosses the paper to Duo and stalks out of the room. No doubt his bassist had seen the entirely too amused smirk creeping onto his face.

Sobering once more, Duo turns his attention to the paper clenched in his hand. He smoothes the wrinkles out of it and takes a bracing breath before he reads it. _Heero Yuy_. A man’s name. His heart lifts out of the pit of his stomach as he continues to read. Male, around his age, lives in New York.

“Quat, this is great!” Duo calls through the still open door. “I dunno why you came in here like the world was ending. For once I’m not going to have some screaming googly eyed teenaged girl tryin’ to feel me up all night.”

He dances out into the living area of the bus, hair flying out behind him in a wild banner of knots and snarls. He grabs it with one hand as it smacks against the bare skin of his back, but even the fingers tangled in it can’t ruin his suddenly positive outlook. Quatre barely grants him a flicker of a glance before he is absorbed back into the bubble of affection offered by their drummer. Duo casts an affectionate smile over the tangle of limbs on the couch and moves to his bag, digging through it for his hair supplies. It would make sense to leave the mound of bottles in the bathroom, in theory. In actuality, the whole mess took up the entire counter of their small tourbus john, and it was a pain to have to pack everything up after a few days to drag it into whatever hotel they were staying in.

Duo hums quietly to himself as he slips into the bathroom, arms filled with hair products, feeling more relieved than he has in weeks. Ever since Zechs let it slip that they were running a contest, with or without his consent, to allow someone backstage at the next NYC tour stop. The last backstage contest crosses his mind and he barely suppresses a shudder, turning the water on hotter as a chill drifts down his spine. It was a nightmare. A group of squealing girls, groping and pawing and finding cutesy little excuses to fall into his lap or trip and ‘accidentally’ steady themselves with a hand on his chest, his ass, or worst of all, his groin. Quatre had needed to cover for him when he ran for the bathroom, bruising his knees as his stomach turned inside out.

He understands why they had to give away VIP passes. Good publicity and all that happy crap. But it makes him sick to his stomach, to have his time and presence sold like a commodity. He supposes that’s what the whole celebrity industry is about – selling his talent, time on stage, his voice rumbling through the speakers of a hundred thousand cars, the hypnotic sight of his long-fingered hands caressing a guitar on a million television screens. Ducking his head under the spray, he lets the scorching water chase away the thoughts, remembering dozens of tiny faces at the Maxwell orphanages. That’s why he does this. That’s why he lets Zechs plaster his face across billboards and buses, lets Zechs sell his image as a leather-clad sex god. Those children, the tinny voices bright with glee when he steps on the premises, the grateful shine in their eyes when he remembers their birthdays and stops by with armfuls of gifts.

Maybe this time the backstage meet and greet won’t end badly. A male had won. He pauses, hands nestled deep into his curtain of hair, perplexed. That had never happened before. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even certain that males ever even entered these contests. Resuming the circles of his nails against his scalp, he shrugs off the confusion. Probably got entered as a joke by a bunch of frat-house buddies and won’t even show up.

There’s a thump of fists against the door, followed by Trowa’s solemn voice. Duo can hear the stoic drummer trying to keep a smile off of his face as he relays Quatre’s message. “Your bassist would like to inquire if you are washing an elephant in the shower.”

Duo shoves his head under the water, rinsing the conditioner from the endless locks, a laugh bubbling out of this throat. He throws his voice, pitching it so Trowa will be able to catch the words. “I’d say Quat could go fuck himself, but he’s got you for that. Go distract him for me, Tro. I’ll be done when I’m damn well ready.”

 

* * *

 

An obnoxious noise stirs Heero from sleep, and he rouses with a groan of annoyance. He slaps his hand down on the alarm clock, lifting his head when the disturbance doesn’t cease. It’s his phone. His eyebrows furrow in a sort of endearing bewilderment as he stares at the vibrating rectangle on his bedside table. Who could be calling him? Wufei is well aware of his sleeping patterns, and people from work prefer to send emails. And, well, to be honest, Heero doesn’t have many other friends. Acquaintances, yes. A vast network of technical resources and connections, clearly. Yet few people could call Heero Yuy a ‘friend.’

Cradling the phone in his palm, he squints down at the brightly lit screen. He considers ignoring the call, as he doesn’t recognize the number, but finds himself curious. Hitting the green button, he lifts the phone to his ear and attempts to clear the sleep from his voice.

“Hello?” He’s pleased to discover that he sounds acceptably awake, only a soft huskiness underlying his words to betray his recently unconscious state.

A cultured, pleasantly melodic voice floats over the line. “Good morning. I’m attempting to reach a,” there’s a brief flutter of paper in the background, “Heero Yuy.”

“This is he,” Heero answers shortly, curiosity being rapidly swept under the rug of irritation.

“Good morning, Mr. Yuy,” the voice repeats, a bit warmer tone emerging in the low voice, “This is Milliardo Peacecraft, the public relations manager for the Gundam Pilots. I’m sure you recall having entered a contest to win tickets and backstage passes to the NYC stop of the Gundam Pilots tour.”

“I… excuse me?” Heero cannot restrain the stutter of shock in his voice.

The stranger on the phone sounds amused now. Heero has no doubt that the man on the other end has received this response before. “You weren’t aware, I presume. It happens. People enter their friends as pranks more frequently than you would expect. Regardless, you’ve won. We can pull a different name if you’d prefer to pass on the tickets.”

“Give me a moment, please.” Heero places the phone down on the polished wooden table, rubbing a hand across his temples. His first thought is that he is going to find and maim whoever decided to submit his name to this contest. His second thought… is to thank them. _What? Oh come on. Tell me that you haven’t entertained a few fantasies about meeting Shinigami_. He grimaces at the unwelcome voice in the back of his head, belatedly realizing that the call is still active. Picking up the phone, holding it as if it perhaps might sink teeth into his hand, he places it to his ear once more. “…hello?” Receiving an acknowledging noise from the other end, he gathers himself to answer. He hopes he doesn’t sound like an over-excited fan. “I would not be adverse to accepting the tickets.”

“Oh! Excellent. Shinigami will be most pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Yuy. The tickets will be waiting for you at the front door. You will have to show i.d. – an unfortunate formality, but I’m certain you can assume how many fans would love to get their hands on backstage passes.”

Heero grunts a vague sort of affirmation, managing to thank the man. “You’re more than welcome, Mr. Yuy. I won’t be attending the show, but I hope to see you at one of our future concerts. Thank you for your time, and do enjoy your day.”

The phone disconnects with a cheerful chirp, screen flashing a notification that the life-changing call took a total of nine minutes, twenty four seconds. “What did I just agree to?” he wonders aloud, head falling back to the pillow. The mutinous, libidinous part of his brain is cheering, a rousing chorus of applause at his impulsive decision to keep the tickets. He doesn’t know if he will end up keeping his date with Shinigami – _it is not a date!_ – but the unfamiliar, giddy sensation of excitement rising in his gut indicates that he probably will. After all, how often do computer programmers get the chance to meet internationally famous rock stars?

 

* * *

 

A hush falls over the office when Heero strides in, and he pauses mid-step in the center aisle. Every single eye in the office is focused on him, the same question on everyone’s mind. _Is Heero Yuy late?_ He glances up at the clock, resuming the steady motion of his feet, seeing the minute hand slide to 8:00 just as he reaches his chair. Shrugging the jacket off his shoulders, he sinks down into the leather surface. He’d drifted back to sleep in a sort of shock and woken up later than his wont… which meant that he arrived at work on time, rather than early.

Wufei glances over the wall between their cubicles, raising an eyebrow at the weariness on his friend’s face. “Good morning, Heero. Is everything alright?”

Heero scrubs a hand over his face, suppressing a sigh. “Hello, Wufei. I got woken up this morning by an… interesting phone call.”

If possible, Wufei’s inquiring eyebrow creeps even higher. He’s known Heero for years, and never once has Heero been woken up by the phone. It might sound odd that he is aware of the morning habits of Heero’s phone, but it’s as simple as knowing that Heero lets people around him know – don’t call me. If I need you, I’ll call you. “Who…?”

Heero ducks his head, dropping his eyes to his hands on the keyboard. He doesn’t need to watch his fingers as they type, thanks to years of multitasking, but he does need to not be meeting Wufei’s level, knowing gaze. His savior comes in the unlikely form of a primly dressed young woman, who sweeps the door of the tech floor open with a manicured hand. She stops at the first desk, as is her custom, and asks Drake if Heero is in. Heero can hear Drake’s amused snort, and constant reply. “Heero is always in, Relena. When have you known him to take a vacation?”

Soon enough, Relena drifts around the corner and pauses in the doorway to his cubicle, waiting for him to notice her. He obligingly lifts his eyes to her face, noting that her hair is in a particularly elaborate creation today. “Good morning, Relena,” he says politely. “You look nice today. How are you doing?”

She blushes prettily at his compliment, a pleased smile curling her glossy lips. He allows his own mouth to tilt up a little bit, offering her the tiniest of responses. While he will never be the boyfriend she wants him to be, he doesn’t mind being able to consider her a friend.

“I’m doing well, Heero, thank you for asking,” her voice has the smooth, cultured lilt of one raised to be in the public eye. Her parents are well-off and well-known, and it is a popular rumor that she will follow in her father’s footsteps as a political figure. “Listen… my father is holding a charity dinner this Saturday night. I was wondering if you would be available to join me. I would appreciate the company of someone my own age.”

Heero winces internally, hearing the truth beneath her words. She is continually seeking a deeper relationship than he can offer, this is true, but she is also a lonely woman, aged beyond her years by her early exposure to the complicated workings of the government. Many of the people who wish to be in her company are fishing for a foothold in politics, a stepping-stone to reach her father. Personally, he surmises that’s why she hasn’t entered the field yet, but has ‘settled’, so to speak, for being the public face of Alliance Corps.

“Relena… I would love to, honestly I would, but… I actually have plans on Saturday night,” he responds quietly, feeling a pang of guilt at the disappointment in her clear blue eyes.

“You do?” she seems surprised. Usually his excuse revolves around an out-of-town programming conference or waiting at home on a time-sensitive shipment of computer parts.

Wufei’s head rises above the cubicle wall again. “You _do_?” His voice sounds as shocked as Relena’s.

“Yes, I… will be at a concert.”

“You will?” They respond in unison this time, glancing up to stare incredulously at each other. Heero Yuy. Computer programmer. Introvert and isolationist extraodinaire. At a concert. With people around… a multitude of people. Relena seems a little bit concerned when she responds, a tiny furrow between her eyebrows. “Heero… pardon me for putting this bluntly, and forgive me if I’m being impolite but… you don’t appreciate people in your space. Nor do you usually like excessively loud noise.” Heero is known for being ‘that person’ who will ferret out the person in the building playing obnoxiously volumed music on their computer… and then being ‘that programmer’ who will hack into their system, mute their computer, and disable user volume controls.

“I know. I… apparently won a contest.”

“ _You did?!_ ” Noin’s voice interrupts this time, halfway to a squeal, and Heero’s face contorts into something like horror as she appears next to Relena. “The only concert going on this Saturday night that I know of is the Gundam Pilots concert. Is that what you’re going to?”

He nods minutely in response, barely tilting his head, and her eyes widen comically. All of the commotion is getting to him, and he lifts a hand to rub at his throbbing temples.

“Relena, I apologize that I can’t accompany you. Perhaps we can have lunch on Sunday. Wufei, I will talk to you later. I will call both of you after work. Right now, I need to start work on these projects, since I won’t be able to come in on Saturday. Please excuse me.”

Turning back to the welcoming glow of his computer screen, he summarily dismisses the group of people gathered around his space. His shoulders relax a touch as silence descends on his workspace, tension dissipating as the pressure on his personal boundaries vanishes. An email appears in his inbox with a cheerful blip.

 

_From: Chang Wufei_

_Subject: Who Are You?_

_Who are you and what have you done with Heero Yuy? When did you enter that contest?_

Heero frowns at his screen. If Wufei is asking, that means that the contest entry didn’t originate with him… and few people in the office were ‘chummy’ enough with him to consider something so violently against his character. _I didn’t_ , he sends back. His best friend’s reply comes seconds later, after a frantic flurry of keys.

 

_From: Chang Wufei_

_Subject: I see, says the blind man._

_I’m surprised that you’re going, then._

He tilts his head in affirmation, replying _I am, too._ His hands pause over the keys as a thought occurs to him, and he opens a second email. _What does one wear to a rock concert?_

 

* * *

 

Duo runs a brush through his profusion of russet curls, the hair sliding like silk through his fingers. His knee is bouncing anxiously, boot tapping rapidly against the floor of the green room. Quatre glances at him from the couch where he lays curled up with Trowa. The drummer and the bassist have matching expressions, predatory and sated from their pre-show routine. Their matching afterglows, clearly visible from stage, had been referred to as “stardust,” “an infectious energy,” and “part of the incredible chemistry that makes the Gundam Pilots so popular.” Though pop culture magazines never went so far as to suggest the actual cause of this vitality, it was well-known that Trowa and Quatre were happily paired up and had been for a number of years.

Duo begins to braid his hair, fingers moving deftly through motions that are more muscle memory than conscious awareness. He suppresses a surge of jealousy as Trowa drops a kiss onto the shining cap of Quatre’s hair, pausing to inhale the heady scent of his lover’s shampoo. Duo is more than happy to avoid the gold-diggers and women searching for their fifteen minutes of fame, but it is a lonely existence. Surrounded by millions of people, yet collapsing into icy and desolate sheets at the end of the night.

Tying off the tail with a hairband pulled of his wrist, he vanishes into his dressing room. The mirror on the back of the door catches his eyes, and he pauses for a minute to cast a critical gaze over his appearance. Heavy leather boots that thunder with each step, that shake the whole stage when he steps into the microphone with a weighted stomp. Artfully torn, skintight jeans that cling to his legs like his fans wish they could, knees ripped out and the remainder of the leg tattered. An ebony muscle shirt that leaves little to the imagination, molding to his chest and back, leaving his beautifully muscled arms bare. A matte black chain snug around his throat, the myriad of earrings dancing up the shell of his ears, the ring glittering from his eyebrow.

And the crowning touch, the coup de grace, his three foot braid, sweeping down his back. He lifts the tail end to his lips, pressing a kiss to it. Kneeling down in front of his guitar, he bows his head and closes his eyes, letting the memories flood him. Sister Helen, the only mother he ever knew, gentle fingers braiding his hair. Telling him that he was the most beautiful boy she’d ever known, that he should carry himself proudly no matter how he chose to look. Father Maxwell, the only man grateful enough of his existence to give him a name, resting hands on his shoulders and telling him that his voice was a gift from God. The other orphans, his little brothers and sisters, destroyed by flame and plague. And Solo, breath rattling in his lungs, pressing a battered guitar into Duo’s hands, saying “go make something of yourself, kid. Do it for me, for all of us. Let them know that we’re still here. Go be the difference.”

Inhaling deeply, the swampy smell of L2’s streets clogs his nostrils for an instant. He sneezes, shivering himself free of the mantra of half-remembered prayers. Drawing himself to his feet, he slings the guitar over his shoulder like a knight going to battle. He slams his foot down, once, feeling the reverberations through the floor as he mentally launches into their first song. The bass, the thump of the drums, the shudder of applause rocketing through him, the screams of people who would throw themselves in front of traffic for a single touch of his hand. His violet eyes are lit with pleasure as he throws open the door, stalking back into the waiting area just as the stage manager knocks on the door.

“Come on boys,” Shinigami purrs, body shifting into a menacing prowl. “It’s show time.”

 

* * *

 

 

“What you wear to a rock concert” turns out to be alarmingly out of character for Heero Yuy. Considering that his wardrobe consists of black slacks, polo shirts, button-downs for the winter, a single tuxedo, and a collection of workout clothing, Wufei’s suggestion of leather and boots went wildly astray. He’d tentatively asked the girls for advice, assuring them that no, he did not have time to go shopping with them and play dress-up. Instead he’d begrudgingly allowed them to send him suggestions to specific articles of clothing that would not seem out of place at a concert.

The result was… not entirely displeasing. He had gone shopping, on his own, with pictures in hand, and came out with what he hopes will be an acceptable outfit. He’d chosen a pair of dark jeans, so blue that they seemed black from a distance. They fit tighter than he would have liked, wrapped around his legs in such a way that there was a sort of constant compression on his skin. He had reluctantly purchased a pair of black workboots, the kind that people wore as fashion accessories rather than for actual construction work. He found it a silly concept, to wear boots when one wasn’t involved in manual labor or engaged in outdoor activities, but the girls had assured him that boots were a necessity. And he did recall the gleaming leather encasing the bottom half of Shinigami’s legs in that video.

He rolls up the cuffs of the button-down hugging his slim torso, an emerald green color that the girls complimented him for on a regular basis. Staring in the mirror, he shakes his head at himself. He was going to stand out like a biker at a starlet’s A-list wedding. Tilting his head in contemplation, he hesitantly fumbles with his buttons until he has the top few undone. It exposes part of his chest, not so much that it could be considered provocative but more than he would usually allow. He shifts from leg to leg, uncomfortable with the man staring back at him from the mirror.

His watch beeps to signal a new hour and he jumps slightly, muffling a noise of alarm. He should have left ten minutes ago! Shoving his wallet into his back pocket, he grunts at the amount of trouble it is to utilize the pockets of such obnoxiously close-fitted jeans. Snatching up his keys, he locks the door of his apartment and leaps the stairs five at a time, landing lightly on his feet at the front of the building.

Although he reaches the concert venue in record time, he groans beneath his breath at the seemingly endless line snaking out the front doors. Standing on tiptoe, he eyes the building and tries to discern if there’s any sort of shortcut for VIP attendees. The waiting is taking forever, and his feet are protesting the brand new boots. He probably should have considered breaking them in before deciding to wear them to an hours-long rock show.

As the people shuffle slowly into the building, he gets close enough to spot a sign that says “VIP pass and backstage visitors.” Sighing with relief, he strides out of line and heads toward the door, ignoring the irate glares from the people waiting in line. One man reaches out to grab his arm, which he neatly sidesteps. Scowling at the outstretched hand, he flicks an annoyed glance at its owner. “Hey man,” the possibly intoxicated and overly handsy man slurs, “why do you get to skip the line?”

He considers turning his back without answering. Instead he lets a sneer cross his grim expression and responds haughtily, “Special treatment. Don’t try to touch me again.”

The man holds his hands up in a ‘no harm intended’ signal of surrender, and Heero turns on heel to resume his progress to the door. His steps are a bit quicker this time, hoping to avoid a second interrogation. The clamor hits him as he tugs the door open, and his fingers freeze on the chill metal of the frame. It’s a concussion of noise, an uproar from the growing audience combined with the cacophony of pre-show soundcheck.

Bracing himself, he wanders up to an empty window and leans in to speak to the woman behind the window. “Excuse me, Miss. I was wondering where the contest winners check in.”

The woman lifts a bored gaze to his face, blows a bubble with her gum, and presses a few keys on her computer. After a period of clicking and tapping, she pops a bubble and holds out her hand. “I.d. please.” He yanks his wallet out of his pocket with more force than should be necessary and hands her his license. Her blank gaze rests on it, eyes glazed over with apathy, and she finally presses a button on screen. Retrieving a card from beneath the counter, she hooks it to a lanyard and retrieves the tickets from the printer. She slides the card, which reads Backstage Pass, the tickets, and his i.d. across the counter, teeth worrying at her gum.

“You’ll be in the front row, middle section, second seat from the left. Concessions stand is outside the doors. Enjoy the show.”

He thanks her politely, though he doubts she’s even heard as she has propped her feet up on the desk and returned to her magazine. His heart is fluttering rapidly in his chest as he turns toward the doors to the inside, sliding the backstage pass into one of his pockets. He won’t need it until after the show, and he doesn’t particularly feel like advertising that he’ll be meeting the band. Better not to invite unwanted attention and all that jazz. Absently handing the man his ticket, Heero stares over his shoulder to the stage, where lights are flashing like a police blockade. He catches a glimpse of the band on stage, shifting their instruments into place. A thrill of excitement runs through him, adrenaline sending his pulse soaring into his throat.

“Here we go,” he murmurs under his breath, words lost in the racket, and moves with eager steps toward his seat.

 

* * *

 

Duo adjusts the microphone stand with a suggestive twist, winking at one of the audience members in the front row. The girl swoons, practically falling against the person next to her, and fans herself frantically. Some of the attention is repulsive to him, but then there’s moments like this where he revels in the power he has.

Trowa is pounding out a beat behind him, warming up, the hiss of the snare drum curling through Duo’s veins. This is what he lives for. The music in his blood, rushing against the walls of his body like waves against the rocky shoreline. The low hum of Quatre beside him, testing the volume of the amplifier, the resounding growl of his own guitar as he plugs in.

He adjusts the mic wired to his face, chatting back and forth with the soundcrew. The stage is already flooded with spotlight and body heat, and he can feel a droplet of sweat trickle down from his hairline. Swiping it off with one hand, he signals an ‘all-good’ to the person manning the lights. They dance out across the audience, highlighting his fans in sweeps of color.

Glancing at the front row, he notes a man leaning against the bar that separates the audience from the stage. He hates that this precaution is necessary, but some fans get downright violent about their affection and his manager insisted. It was a compromise – put up the bar, but Duo is allowed to go down into the audience during certain songs and will allow backstage passes for some of the shows.

He shifts into Quatre’s space and muffles the mic with one hand. “Where does the contest winner usually get a seat?” Quatre glances at him curiously and indicates the seats front and center, vaguely in the direction of the attractive male. Quatre eyes the audience for a moment, his gaze lighting on the same person that Duo noticed. A young man, probably around their age, and rather striking, but standing out of the crowd like a flashing neon sign. Something about the stiffness of his posture, the wariness of his face as he takes in the nearness of other people to himself. He’s there, his scans of the stage are appreciative, but he isn’t part of their usual crowd.

“Oh man,” Duo purrs in his ear, “I would kill for that delicious young thing to be the one who won the contest.”

As if noticing their attention, the man turns his steady scrutiny onto the stage and freezes Duo in place. Dark eyes, blue as the ocean at midnight unless Duo misses his guess, and impossibly perceptive. Duo relaxes, hand running slowly down the neck of his guitar in a subtly sexual gesture. He lets a seductive smile unfurl on his lips, and raises an eyebrow at the stranger. A blush rises on the man’s high cheekbones, indication of an Asian heritage if he’s ever seen one. Despite this, those stunning eyes drop to Duo’s boots and begin an unhurried, intentional sweep up the long lines of his body. By the time they light on his face, satisfied expression clearly indicating a positive assessment, Duo is insisting that his body calm the fuck down. The sapphire eyes in the audience have a distinctly heated glow to them and he finds himself swallowing hard, licking suddenly dry lips as he tears his eyes away.

“Shit, Quat. I changed my mind. I’m fucking doomed if he’s the one.”


	3. My First Kiss Went a Little Like This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duo Maxwell is Shinigami, the L2 orphan who was swept off the streets of his home colony to become the lead singer and guitarist of the chart topping rock band, Gundam Pilots. Heero Yuy is a successful but reclusive computer programmer, happy to live out his days in relative solitude. When Heero's coworkers accidentally win him VIP tickets to a Gundam Pilots concert, what will Shinigami make of this handsome yet strangely reticent mystery?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for songs is as follows:  
> "animals" - nickelback  
> "thnks fr th mmrs" - fallout boy  
> "paralyzer" - finger eleven  
> "serenity" - godsmack

Heero sinks down into his seat, blood rushing to his face. If he is not incorrect, he just had what people call ‘a moment’ with none other than Shinigami. _A moment_. Granted, he has been accused of having a complete inability to read social cues, so it’s entirely possible that it was just ‘a moment’ in his head, and nothing more than a passing glimpse for the other man.

Shinigami… the man is, if possible, more impressive in person. Pictures and even video did nothing to convey the amount of vitality, the sheer presence of life in the young rockstar. He is vibrant. The spotlights hit him, flood down his body like whitewater rapids, but it is the man himself who lights the stage.

Heero glances around in alarm as the building is plunged into darkness, immediately searching for emergency exits. A guitar riff blasts through the speakers and Heero jumps in his seat, a nervous flush flickering over his cheeks as he surreptitiously eyes the people around him. No one seems to have noticed his unusual behavior, and he drops back into the cushions with a huff of annoyance at his high-strung brain. The drums join the guitar, humming through the floor of the amphitheater, tumbling into their seats. The pulse of the bass settles behind his breastbone, rumbling in his bones, and he closes his eyes as the music sweeps through him.

A spotlight brightens the stage and his eyes slide open, curious. The audience rises in an exuberant tide as Shinigami dives into the puddle of light, braid flying out behind him as his knees graze the ground. The hypnotic guitar chords are being coaxed from his hands, fingers dancing confidently across the frets. Heero leans in to peer not at the man, but at the peculiar guitar in his hands. He had assumed that the world-famous rockstar would be wielding an expensive, impossibly shaped guitar, a one-of-a-kind creation that the manufacturer could boast about. Instead, cradled reverently in those delightfully skilled hands, is a battered black guitar. Dented, scratched, finish worn off in several places, it’s more the guitar of a street artist or a back-alley garage band than an international superstar.

Heero quirks one eyebrow in speculation, a hint of admiration stealing through him. He must have had quite the battle with his PR person to be allowed to sport what is obviously a relic from his past. He frowns slightly at his piqued curiosity – he easily could have done the research necessary to have a grasp on Shinigami’s past. It was careless of him to stroll in here underinformed.

The rockstar’s voice purrs through the speakers, a punishing rhythm of lyrics, and Heero finds himself absently wondering at the man’s lung capacity. Usually he can detect a singer’s sharply drawn inhale, can time his own breathing in order to accurately sing along, but the vocals sound seamless. Not that he knows many Gundam Pilots songs, but the listening is a habit regardless.

_I’ll ask polite if the devil needs a ride, because the angel on my right ain’t hangin’ out with me tonight_.

Shinigami’s eyes sweep the stage as he sings that line, purple gaze seeming to hover on Heero for an instant. Heero’s pulse leaps beneath his skin in answer to that kohl-rimmed gaze, and he must be hallucinating because he swears that the man just winked at him.

Heat is rising in the room like a molten wave, the audience growing ever more enthusiastic. Shinigami beckons to one of the half-dressed girls in the front row as he croons _so come on baby, get in_ , and she nearly passes out against the people next to her. The crowd screams with enthusiasm, surging toward the bar rimming the stage, and it’s almost a magnetic force that drags them back and forth. They shift around the platform as Shinigami struts across the wooden surface, the heavy tread of his boots shaking the floor.

A brightly colored scrap of fabric flies through the air as the song ends with a resounding drum roll, and Shinigami slings his guitar across his shoulders and leaps to catch it. He lands with a thundering slam, catching himself with one hand, and Heero feels the thud of those boots down to his very bones. The man throws his arm triumphantly into the air, displaying what must be a piece of clothing. A devilish glitter shines out of his wide eyes and he tosses the fabric into the wings of the stage, presumably for someone to collect. A smirk curls his reddened lips and his tongue darts out to wet them as he stands, adjusting the leather strap of his guitar.

“Why thank you, ladies,” he rumbles, his voice as deadly as sin and just as enticing.

Heero shifts imperceptibly in his chair, angling himself toward the stage and the man who makes his body hum like a perfectly tuned instrument. He doesn’t know exactly what about this man draws him in – plenty of aesthetically appealing people have attempted to get past his barriers and failed at the level of almost-friendship. Yet he is not in the habit of denying himself anything that he reacts to as strongly and viscerally as this. He doesn’t have many passions, but those that he allows himself, he indulges in fully.

He clears his throat, rasping against the mic. “How’s everyone doin’ tonight?”

The audience roars in response, people undulating and flailing, rising and cresting like moon-drawn waves. Heero glances around, finding people surging out of their seats, yearning toward the long-haired man, sunflowers stretching toward the mid-day sun. They break against the metal bar, flinging their bodies against its unyielding surface, hands reaching toward the wooden planks of the stage. Shinigami dances along the edge, boot tips perilously close to slipping off, brushing fingers and palms over the clawing throng. The crowd howls its approval, manic energy rising, and Shinigami seems to grow larger with every increased decibel. His presence unfurls, stretching shadowed wings, and spreads over the amphitheater.

“It’s awesome to see you all here tonight!” And it’s as if he is addressing each one of them personally, as if his arms spread wide are a personal invitation for them to come closer. “Now ya look like an attractive group… how ‘bout that one night stand thing?” Scattered screams rise above the undulating roar. “Yeah? Big fans of the walk o’ shame?” A low rumble of laughter. “Well then…” he leans in, guitar tumbling gracefully over his shoulder, landing cradled in his arms. “This one’s for you.”

He stalks over to the bassist, a slim blond creature whose appearance is tame in comparison to Duo’s. His golden hair is swept sleekly away from his face, clear blue eyes bare of decoration, and there isn’t a hint of leather adorning his small frame. Silver bands encircle each wrist beneath rolled cuffs of a button-down shirt and Heero spies the glint of an earring from one lobe, but he isn’t glittering with the array of metal that dangles from Shinigami.

_Dark side and light. Opposing sides. Yin and yang, as tradition says – they oppose and complement one another._ The two press into each other, shoulders meeting in a companionable brush, and their fingers begin to twitch over the strings. The audience stills, hypnotized by the perfect duality in front of them, and a half-smile cuts Heero’s stoic expression as he admires the carefully staged contrast of innocence and jaded reality. The bassist saunters up to the microphone stand, hand leaving the bass to twist around the mic. He eyes the audience, a mischievous expression on his face, before he tilts his head at Shinigami and the two begin to sing.

_I’m gonna make it, bend and break… say a prayer but let the good times roll… in case God doesn’t show…_

Shinigami offers a cheeky bow at the last line and then springs away from the bassist, leaping up onto one of the speakers at the front of the stage. He perches on the low platform, curling his body around his guitar, fingers still crawling restlessly over the strings as he sings. The bassist is wrapped around the microphone, alternatively strumming the bass and stroking the metal shaft of the stand in a distinctly suggestive motion. The hiss of the cymbals rolls across the stage, enveloping the two guitarists, and the platform explodes in light as the trio bursts into the heart of the rhythm.

  _One night and one more time – thanks for the memories, even though they weren’t so great. He tastes like you, only sweeter._

Heero pauses, startled out of the trance-like tempo by the lyrics winding through his brain. _He? Did Shinigami just sing he?_ He catches the rock star’s eyes on him again as the chorus repeats, snags the man’s entrancing purple gaze and mouths the lyrics along with him, emphasizing the male pronoun. At an instrumental gap in the lyrics, their eyes still mated across flailing hands and bobbing heads, a sphinx-like smirk curls Shinigami’s features. A tiny nod tucks that braided head down, just far enough for Heero to capture. Heero’s eyes widen in surprise and he finds himself grinning in reply, lips parting so widely that his cheeks begin to ache.

_Why does it matter? You aren’t even attracted to males_. His head tilts in consideration, almost in denial. It is historically true that he has never been involved either physically or emotionally with a male. However, he has to admit that he is not necessary opposed to such an experience. _Maybe I’m attracted to this male. From past research, it is a commonly held belief that sexual orientation is a fluid and ever-shifting trait._

On stage, Shinigami is flowing through an increasingly complicated series of jumps, launching himself from speaker to speaker. At the climax of the song, he belts out the chorus, holds the last note, and flips himself backwards off the low protrusion, landing neatly in the center of the stage. The crowd lurches to their feet in amazement, Heero among them, caught up in the almost-rabid energy circulating through the mass of bodies. He remains on his feet, swaying and clapping and bouncing on the balls of his feet, throughout the next half-dozen songs.

His feet are aching, blisters rising across his heels and beneath his toes, sweat trickling down his temples and under his hairline, throat raw from screaming his approval, but he has never before experienced such an incredible night. His brain is flying through guitar chords, low snarls of bass, rocketing cymbals and hissing snare, and through it all the honey-over-razors hum of Shinigami’s voice. His heart is racing, pounding behind his eyes, thrumming in his fingertips, and he swears he can see colors he never knew existed. This is living. This, the life-blood of the audience shared between each and every one of them, being part of a bigger existence, the shining stars in front of them, singing and playing their hearts out. This must be what people seek when they skydive, when they swim with sharks, when they scale mountains. This sensation of being part of something more, of being so alive and yet so insignificant. It’s miraculous.

Heero tips his head back and laughs aloud, the sound lost in the perpetual thunder of the mass around him. Shinigami catches his eye, sauntering to his end of the stage, and angles his body toward Heero as he croons _I’m not paralyzed but I seem to be struck by you… I wanna make you move because you’re standing still_. Caught in the impulse of the night, Heero lifts his hand and tosses Shinigami a mimed kiss. Immediately, he snaps out of the concert high, a flush flooding his cheeks. _I cannot believe I just did that. Am I a squealing thirteen-year-old girl?_ He’s silently but severely chastising himself as Shinigami’s eyebrows creep up, his eyes widening slightly. After a moment the rockstar’s face softens, eyes warming, and he reaches out to snatch the blown kiss out of the air, tucking his fingers into the edge of his shirt. He taps above his heart and winks, and the crowd shrieks in adoration. They love him. No matter what he does, they love him.

* * *

 

The concert is winding down, crowd quieting, and the lights dim. A murmur of enthusiasm stirs through the audience, and Heero catches the people next to him mentioning ‘the serenade.’ The spotlight on the stage fades to a dim glow as the bassist removes his guitar, wandering to the back of the stage to snag a bottle of water. The drummer swipes sweat from his brow, effortlessly catching a bottle tossed to him by the blond man. Shinigami strolls front and center, presence subtle now. He seems almost human, almost at the level of his now-hushed fans. Reaching a short outcropping, he drops to the floor and perches on the edge of the stage, boots dangling beneath him. He kicks them a few times, an almost childishly playful grin lighting his face. A rumble of laughter rolls through the crowd. He settles the guitar on his lap, drawing his hand along the body in a reverent gesture.

_That guitar must mean a great deal to him… it doesn’t seem like much, but he treats it like a priceless artifact._

Heero props his elbow on the armrest and rests his chin in his hand, eyes trained on the braided man. The woman next to him leans over. “This is my favorite part,” she confides. He eyes her a bit anxiously, tilting his body enough that she is out of his personal space.

“Oh?” he responds neutrally.

“Yeah… the Gundam Pilots always do one song that’s slower or different than the rest. Shini calls it the Serenade.” She sighs softly. “He’s so perfect.”

Heero grunts, hoping that his non-answer will discourage her from communicating further. After sating his curiosity, he had no particular urge to continue the conversation. He’s saved by the first quiet chords of the song. The woman is right. This is nowhere near the remainder of the concert set. The drummer has descended from his instrument and has a peculiar circle of new drums around him. A tribal beat is whispering out of them, twining around the solitary guitar melodies, and blanketing the crowd in a trance.

_I need serenity in a place where I can hide. I need serenity, nothing changes, days go by._

Shinigami sways with the soft notes, his voice ringing out over the hushed amphitheater. The audience mirrors his movements, shifting slowly from side to side like a massive snake in a charmer’s hold. Heero is enraptured, his own body drifting slightly with the hypnotic rhythm of Shinigami’s voice. As much as he enjoyed the body-shaking drum beats and ear-splitting guitar riffs of the previous songs, it is clear that this is where the singer’s heart is. That this is who the rock star really is. He shines, in a subdued sort of way, an inner glow emanating from his oscillating form.

_I’m the one who loves you, no matter wrong or right… and every day I’ll hold you, I’ll hold you with my inner child._

As violently attractive as Shinigami is when he is leaping about the stage like a maniacal zoo creature, Heero is captured not by the rockstar presence but by this solemn man, eyes half-closed, singing his heart out in the one song where he is allowed to be emotionally and physically close to his fans.  The song ends as it began, voice fading into the trill of ancestral drums, tap and hiss of drums fading into the mesmerizing drone of the single guitar.

The crowd seems to exhale in unison as Shinigami stills the steel strings of his guitar, his eyes opening to scan the audience. His face is exposed for a moment, darkness lingering behind his amethyst orbs, and then manic energy shutters the expression behind a mask of enthusiasm. Heero’s outbreath is disappointed. The crowd might be expecting a different Shinigami, a rabidly excited rockstar, but he had been enjoying the holy solemnity of the serenade.

Shinigami climbs slowly to his feet, lengthening his body in a graceful stretch. His bassist and drummer meander to center stage to stand beside him, and he slings an arm around their shoulders. “Thank you for coming, everyone! We appreciate each and every one of you.” They bow in unison, a practiced motion, and the drummer steps forward. He seems impossibly tall next to the shorter pair, his slender body clad in an unusual pair of half-plaid, half-striped pants. He sketches a quick half-bow over the microphone stand. “Remember, you are all important to us. Everything that we do is for our fans.” The blond drifts forward, slipping under his arm, and a breathy sigh rustles through the crowd. He leans in under his tall partner to speak to the audience. “So remember, we are always here for you. We read your letters, your emails, your sorrow and your happiness. We are listening to you.”

Shinigami pipes up once more, voice low with seriousness. “No matter how difficult things seem, stay here with us. We love you all.” And then, in unison once more, “Thank you, New York!”

* * *

 

Duo blasts through the curtain, launching himself into the wings of the stage. Snagging a bottle of water, he lifts it to his lips and drains half the bottle. He swipes a hand across his lips, flinging water onto Quatre as he bounces past. “Duo, gross!” “Suck it, Quat.” “Grow up, both of you,” is Trowa’s quiet input.

Trowa sweeps by them, pausing to shake hands with the stage manager. He tips his head toward the leader of the sound crew, halting to offer his hand and an expression of thanks. Trowa always did the thanking and the behind-the-scenes gratitude after the show, making sure that the crew was aware of how much the Gundam Pilots appreciated their hard work. Quatre watches his lover, a fondness in his sky-blue eyes, and Duo rolls his eyes in exasperation. Nauseating, the two of them. Perfect couple, though.

Zech’s assistant scurries up, twitching anxiously from foot to foot as he waits on Duo’s attention. Duo stares in the opposite direction, intentionally ignoring him, watching the reedy man become increasingly less composed out of the corner of his eye. Finally, the man clears his throat nervously and Duo pretends to notice him. “Yes?” he drawls casually, eyeing the man in a fashion that he knows makes uptight people uncomfortable. The man stutters in response, tugging at the fully buttoned collar of his dress shirt.

“The, um, the contest winner is waiting, Mr. Maxwell, Sir.”

A feral grin bursts into life on Duo’s heart-shaped face, and he links his arm through Quatre’s as he bounces off to their dressing rooms. “Well, let’s see ‘im then! You know where ta take the man.” Behind closed doors, Duo vanishes into his room to place his guitar on its stand. He traces a line down the sleek body, rubbing absently at a scratch. He hears Trowa’s measured tread in the other room, the door closing behind the tall man. Wandering out into the common area, he returns in time to see Quatre standing on tiptoe to brush sweat-drenched hair from Trowa’s face.

He couldn’t figure out why their drummer wore his hair like that – slicked out in a single sweeping spike, concealing one brilliant green eye. It always ended up flopping damply over his face by the end of the show, leaving him with an automatic head toss for a few hours until he gave in and gelled the locks into submission once more. The blond kisses Trowa sweetly on the end of the nose and Trowa gifts him with a rare smile. Duo rolls his eyes again – it’s his own post-show compulsive gesture, as the famous couple is always particularly affectionate in the afterglow of a successful concert.

He collapses bonelessly onto one of the long couches, stretching himself out. Toeing off his boots, he listens for the heavy thud and wriggles his toes indulgently. Trowa and Quatre make their way to one of the other couches, Quatre settling contentedly into the circle of Trowa’s arms. Duo likes to compare them to a pair of lions lazing in the midday sun after a hunt. When the familiar smirk curls Duo’s lips, Quatre huffs in exasperation and mutters out the punchline. “Which makes me the lioness, yes, thank you Duo.”

Duo cackles at his own joke, pleased that he can manipulate Quatre into reciting it for him. A knock bursts through the door, a machine-gun rattle, and Duo tenses. He draws his knees up, sliding into a sitting position, and calls out “come in” in a voice considerably calmer than he feels. The door floats open, revealing Peacecraft’s assistant and, bless the gods above, the stunning young man who Duo had been practically eye-fucking throughout the entire concert. Lord, but he was a gorgeous specimen. Finely muscled, well-dressed, poured into a pair of skintight jeans and expensive boots. A mop of chocolate hair that Duo’s fingers itch to dig into, a face to make renaissance sculptors weep, and sinfully dark blue eyes.

“Well hello there,” Duo purrs, rising smoothly from the couch. The assistant disappears from sight, leaving only the walking wet dream. The man slides a hand through his hair, leaving a messy path in its wake, and offers a shy wave to the band.

Duo strolls up next to him, catching a lingering hint of intoxicating cologne, and his knees weaken. Good looking, possibly interested, and smells divine. _I musta died and gone to heaven because this man is a fuckin’ angel._ He offers his hand, flashing his megawatt publicity smile. “I’m Shinigami, a.k.a. God of Death, a.k.a. hell on wheels. Singer and guitarist extraordinaire, but ya already saw that, didn’tcha?”

The man in front of him glances down at his hand, slips his palm against Duo’s, and wraps his fingers around Duo’s skin. A bolt of heat blasts through Duo and he swallows down a moan, struggling to get a grasp on his rampant libido. He’s so busy trying to control his hormones that he almost misses the man’s reply. “My name is Heero Yuy. I… enjoyed your show quite a bit.” The man’s voice is quiet, unassuming, but with a husky undertone that does wonderful things for Duo’s fantasies. _This man. Is going. To kill me._

Duo’s smile softens at the nervousness in this stranger’s voice, letting the mask melt away until only a genuine expression remains. A slight flush creeps onto the man’s – Heero’s – face, and Duo’s grin deepens. This shyness is a pleasant change from the usual rabid squealing, and he finds it more than a little adorable. “Duo.” He responds, watching Heero’s face morph into surprise. “You can call me Duo Maxwell. My buddies back there do, and I hope ya don’t mind that I’d like to add ya to my list of friends.”

“I don’t mind at all. It’s nice to meet you, Duo.” Heero says his name like he’s testing it, rolling it around his mouth to see if he finds it appealing. Duo spares a brief instant to imagine what he would enjoy having that mouth do to him. Realizing that their hands are still clasped together, he gently draws his own away and turns back to the couch.

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” he throws over his shoulder, settling back onto the cushions. He pats the seat next to him, injecting all the charm he can muster into his voice. “Come. Sit.” _Come, please. Preferably with me, on me… damn. This is getting ridiculous. I must need to get laid. People don’t get ta me like this, don’t get close enough to get to me. Not me. Not Shinigami._

Heero arches an eyebrow at him, a knowing smile curled about the edges of his lips, but he moves to sit beside Duo. Their legs nearly touch as the cushions sink between them, and Duo twitches imperceptibly. His arm is thrown up over the back of the couch, right where Heero placed himself, and it would only take a tiny movement to have his hand…

Quatre clears his throat politely, and Duo starts out of his daydream. “Oh! Sorry Quat! Heero, this is Quatre, my bassist, and Trowa, my drummer. Quat and Tro are, as you can probably tell, fu-“ “ _Duo_!” “-ah, they’re together. Sickeningly sweet, really, so it’s better if ya just look the other way when they get all snuggly. Don’t wantcha to get cavities an’ all that.”

Heero nods toward them, angling his body to include them in his circle of attention. “Hello Quatre, Trowa. It is an honor to meet you. You are both very talented musicians.”

Quatre’s face lights up at the compliment, and Duo can tell that Quatre has already accepted Heero into the category of ‘friend.’ Quat is a remarkable judge of character, and anyone who he likes is pretty damn okay in Duo’s book. Trowa merely nods, a silent understanding flickering between himself and Heero, and Duo chuckles inwardly. So the silent man has found someone else who speaks grunts and head gestures. He finds himself inordinately pleased that his bandmates have accepted Heero so easily into their fold.

Relaxing against the cushions, Duo muses on how different this backstage meeting is. He doesn’t have to throw up the walls and masks, doesn’t have to play Shinigami the Rockstar for God only knows how many hours after an exhausting show. Speaking of… he rubs at his eyes, frowning when his fingers come back streaked with black.

“Heero, I hope ya don’t mind, but Imma go scrub my face. This make-up makes my eyes itch. I usually hafta keep it on for this contest meeting shit – pardon my French – but I think you’re gonna be impressed with me either way.” He rises from the couch with a cheeky wink, ignoring Heero’s startled expression, and strolls out of the room.

* * *

 

Heero is left gaping at the rockstar, who is not at all what he expected. Sassy, smart-mouthed, and extremely confident… but also charming, down-to-earth, and much lower-key than he is on stage. He turns back to Quatre and Trowa, summoning an uneasy smile onto his face. Quatre, as if sensing his uncertainty, speaks up almost immediately.

“So, Heero, what did you think of the show?”

“Well, I don’t go to this type of event very often-” “We can tell,” they interject, in unison, and Heero chuckles a little bit. “Is it that obvious?”

Quatre smiles warmly at him, relaying with the grin that his comment is meant lightly. “I noticed a few times that people invading your personal space received a distinctively unwelcoming warning glare. Regular concert-goers are used to becoming sardines. You stand out a little bit,” he muses, and then continues when a furrow appears between Heero’s eyebrows, “It isn’t a bad thing, necessarily. Duo noticed you also.”

Heero glances down at his hands, fingers meshed together in a nervous gesture. He fights down the blush touching his cheeks. “Did he?”

“Of course. Duo is a unique creature. He appreciates people who stand out from the crowd.”

“He doesn’t like sheep,” Trowa comments quietly.

Heero glances at Trowa, finds the man’s one visible eye taking his measure. He offers the drummer the same visual evaluation, noticing how comfortable the two men are with each other. It warms him, to see two openly gay men in such an apparently ideal pairing. The man gives him the tiniest quirk of his lips after a minute, the faintest hint of approval. Quatre, noticing their wordless exchange, peeks beneath Trowa’s bang to see his assessment.

“Oh, excellent,” Quatre murmurs, and Heero shoves down the wave of pride that swamps him with their acceptance.

“Pardon me for asking, but have you two been together long? You seem to suit each other.”

They smile at each other, heat rising between their matched gazes. “We met in high school, second year. I had stayed after school to tutor one of the other students, and Trowa stayed late practicing for his summer job at the traveling circus. I was leaving the building when I heard the sound of drums coming from the music room. I found Trowa in there… we started playing together fairly regularly after that. I would bring my bass and he would use the pep band’s drumset. It took him until junior year to ask me out, and of course I said yes. I spent a whole year waiting for him. We went to prom together.” A frown mars his delicate features. “It… wasn’t received well.”

“Your parents?” Heero prompts carefully, unsure of whether it’s as sensitive a subject for the two men as it is for him.

Quatre shakes his head. A wince crosses Trowa’s stoic face. “My parents were accepting of the situation. As long as I’m happy and healthy, they’re okay with my personal decisions. Trowa…” he pauses.

“I’m a child of the system,” Trowa says quietly, and Quatre laces their fingers together in support.

“So am I,” Heero offers. Trowa nods gratefully at the tacit gift of support, and they let the subject pass.

“Our peers were not as accepting as my parents. It was a bit rough, but we learned to keep our relationship out of the public eye. We started playing at a few small town clubs to get some money, so we could escape to a big city where homosexuality wasn’t such a rare occurrence. That’s when Duo’s manager found us, told us he had a singer and lead guitarist that could bring us fame. We were skeptical, but Duo sold us on the idea shortly after we met him. It’s hard to resist when he’s enthusiastic about something.”

“Ooh, my favorite subject!” Duo plops back onto the couch beside Heero, sitting near enough that their thighs touch. In an unusual display of complacency, Heero allows the disruption to his personal space. Unconsciously, Heero leans into the contact, seeking the heat of Duo’s skin.

The rock star grins. “You may continue talking about me.”

Quatre rolls his eyes. “I was telling Heero our story, not your story.” Duo stiffens, his muscles rigid, and Heero feels the leg against him hum with tension. “Duo.” There is a gentle admonishment in Quatre’s voice. “I would never. It’s not my place to reveal your history.”

An uncomfortable silence steals over the room, and Heero shifts in place as the room fills with unspoken words. He clears his throat nervously, rising from the couch. He casts an apologetic glance at Duo. “Pardon me for a moment. I need to use the rest room, if you don’t mind.”

“Go ‘head,” Duo mutters, stare fixed on Quatre. “It’s through that door.” He waves vaguely at the far end of the room, and Heero hurries away from the strained group.

* * *

 

Duo’s eyes harden as Heero disappears into the bathroom. “Shit, Quatre, he’s a _stranger_. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I didn’t tell him anything, Duo. He asked about Trowa and I, and I told him how Trowa and I met, and then how we met you. I didn’t tell him anything about you. Duo, why is it such a big deal to you?”

Duo deflates, sinking into the cushions of the couch. “I dunno, Quat… I kind of like him. I hardly know him but, ya know, I want to. And not,” he emphasizes, seeing the suggestive glint in Quatre’s eyes, “in the biblical sense.” He pauses, then mumbles under his breath, “Though yeah, in that way too.”

“We noticed how you were looking at him. You usually don’t gravitate to one section of the audience like you did tonight,” Quatre comments.

Duo shrugs. “Not like it matters. We never stay in one place, he’s prob’ly not even gay, and hell, no one even knows that _I’m_ gay.”

“I’m sure they suspect, considering that you’re not fucking everything female that crosses your path,” Trowa murmurs dryly.

“I’m not fucking anything female!” Duo retorts. “Oh, yeah, I see what you mean. All the other stars have those blonde bimbos hanging off of their dicks. But with my past I can’t afford to stand out any more than I already do.”

“It might be time to come out, Duo. They’ve been extremely accepting of Trowa and I… it couldn’t hurt to let the fans into your life a little bit.”

“It’s not the fans I’m worried about,” Duo grumbles, picturing the paparazzi that mob them every time they leave a building. “And besides, I didn’t want to come out until I had the boyfriend to prove it. They’ll be all, pics or it didn’t happen. Fuck. I hate this.”

A smug grin crosses Quatre’s face. “Well, what’s wrong with Heero?”

Duo pales as Heero leans over the back of the couch, his fingers brushing casually along Duo’s arm. “I heard my name. Did I miss something?”


	4. Fever Isn't Such a New Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duo Maxwell is Shinigami, the L2 orphan who was swept off the streets of his home colony to become the lead singer and guitarist of the chart topping rock band, Gundam Pilots. Heero Yuy is a successful but reclusive computer programmer, happy to live out his days in relative solitude. When Heero's coworkers accidentally win him VIP tickets to a Gundam Pilots concert, what will Shinigami make of this handsome yet strangely reticent mystery?

 

Heero swipes the last few droplets of water from his hands onto his dark jeans, stepping carefully back toward the common area. The boots are anything but subtle, thunking along the carpeted floors, making his usually noiseless movements audible to anyone within a 100 yard radius. His name drifts down the hallway and captures his attention. “…what’s wrong with Heero?” He hears as his body fills the doorway between the corridor and the seating area.

Leaning over the back of the couch, he tips his balance until he can see Duo’s face. “Did I miss something?” he inquires playfully. The blood drains from Duo’s face, leaving his wide purple eyes as the only color in a sea of pale skin. He brushes his hand over Duo’s bangs, a concerned furrow appearing between his eyebrows. “I was just playing,” he murmurs quietly, squeezing Duo’s shoulder.

Duo seems to snap back to attention, a healthy flush flooding back into his cheeks. He grins up at Heero, his upside-down smile impossibly endearing. “Ah, ya know, we were just talkin’ about goin’ out to the bar an’ I was bitching that I’d hafta be alone with the two lovebirds over there.” He shrugs, reaching up to cover Heero’s hand so the motion doesn’t dislodge it. His other hand inches up to scrub at his braid, an uncertain little smirk creeping onto his lips. “I don’t s’pose you’d wanna come with?”

A comical expression of surprise paints Heero’s features. His lips move soundlessly for a moment before he manages to stutter, “Me? I don’t know, Duo… I’m not certain I would fit in with the type of crowd that famous rock stars gather.”

Duo pops a finger against the end of his nose, earning a startled twitch, and grins cheekily at him. “I wasn’t askin’ ya for them, darlin’, I was asking ya for me. You don’t hafta keep anyone company except yours truly.”

“Well in that case,” Heero muses, under his breath. He offers Duo a tentative smile, glances up to see Quatre’s encouraging hand gestures and Trowa’s silent nod of support. “I’d love to join you.”

“Awesome!” Duo bounces off the couch, releasing Heero’s hand, and snatches his phone from a nearby table. He’s already plastered it to his ear, spitting words rapidly into the device, when Heero’s brain catches up with him.

_You’re going to hang out with a rock star. A rock star. And his band. You’re a computer programmer, Heero Yuy! These celebrities are going to tear you apart. Not to mention the paparazzi._ Heero groans softly, and Quatre quirks a curious eyebrow at him. He shrugs noncommittally and sinks back into his thoughts. _Shall I mention your severe reaction to Shinigami? Sorry, Duo. Getting a bit over-friendly with you, isn’t he? Are you going to be his newest groupie? Didn’t reckon ya for a notch-in-the-bedpost kinda guy._

His spine stiffens at the last mental comment, which sounded alarmingly like Duo whispering in his ear. He eyes the other man, who has tucked the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he can gesture with both hands as he paces. Duo chirps a “thanks!” to the person on the other end and slips the phone into his pocket. He spins around to face the couches, braid whipping around behind him and nearly missing a lamp.

“All set, boys! The limo’s at one end and the bus is at the other. Security is keepin’ the kiddies away from the exits. You can stop and sign stuff by the main entrance if ya get a wild hair, but I think Heero an’ I are just gonna head over to Oz. Meetcha there?”

Heero’s eyes widen ever-so-slightly at the name of the club Duo is planning on taking them to. Oz is quite possibly the most prestigious nightclub in the city. Heero has driven past it half a dozen times, on his way home from late night shifts, and the lines outside the door were outrageous. _Definitely not going to fit in there_ , his subconscious grumps, but he silences it ruthlessly as Duo grabs his hand and drags him toward the door.

The touch of those fingers against his palm warms him, the calluses from that battered guitar offering a tantalizing texture against his smooth skin. Heero allows himself to be hauled behind the exuberant rockstar, silken braid occasionally battering their joined hands. An indulgent smile curls his lips as they slip down a darkened hallway, Duo instinctively winding his way through the backstage corridors. If someone had told Heero yesterday that a world-famous singer would be holding his hand and inviting him out for drinks, he might have borrowed some foul language and told them that they must have lost their damn mind.

Duo’s phone blares out into the hushed hallway just as they round the corner to find a crowd of people converging on their location. Cameras flash, microphones already extended toward Duo, and Heero throws up a hand at the blinding light. He hears Duo suck in a sharp breath beside him, glances over to find the rock star plastering on his public persona. Duo presses his phone into Heero’s hand and steps in front of him, effectively hiding him from the media presence. Heero pops up the message, seeing a security alert that the press slipped the barrier and is searching the building.

Reporters are peppering Duo with questions, everything from “how was the show tonight?” “Did you notice a difference in the crowd’s reaction?” to “Who’s that behind you?” “Is it true that the contest was rigged to let a man win because you’re gay?” Duo snorts at that one, the ghost of a smirk flitting across his face.

Duo holds up his hands in supplication and the mass of people obligingly quiets. “The show was awesome. My fans were incredible, as always. The Gundam Pilots are always amazed by how loyal our followers are, and this time was no exception.” Heero tips his head, listening to the practiced cadence of Duo’s voice. It’s different than when he is in private – more polished, less slang. Different even than when he is on stage. This isn’t Duo, or even Shinigami the rockstar. This is Shinigami, the public face of the Gundam Pilots, groomed for interviews and publicity.

“And no,” Duo continues, a wry twist to his lips, “the contest was not rigged. The winner was chosen at random.”

“Shinigami,” a voice rises above the din of the crowd. Duo tips his head in acknowledgement, and a suit-clad woman squeezes to the front. “The Home for Every Child charity is concentrating their efforts this year on the massive number of L2 orphans. Do you support this focus?”

A rustle of voices ripples through the collection of people, all faces expectantly trained on Duo. He draws in a slow, even breath, and Heero winces at the tension rising across his slender form. “I will always back up any organization that tries to better the lives of homeless and orphaned children,” Duo comments quietly, the reporters leaning eagerly in to catch his words.

“So you’ll be joining them for the Auction Against Slavery event? Rumor has it that you’ve been avoiding responding to their invitation.”

Duo presses his lips together until the blood retreats, leaving a white-rimmed grimace on his face. “That is a tasteless event,” he snaps, his voice devoid of warmth. “Selling people to the highest bidder in a protest against child slavery is like hiring prostitutes for an anti-rape campaign.”

“I thought you supported the organization,” the reporter prods, a cruel smirk etching her pointed features.

“Just because I support the charity does not mean I’ll let them sell me,” he growls.

Heero inches forward, hoping he is beyond notice, and ghosts his fingers across Duo’s lower back. Duo curls into his touch, seeking support as the interrogation continues.

“It’s for a good cause, and it’s not as if you’re actually being sold into slavery,” the woman taunts. “And besides, people are saying that the famous Shinigami has forgotten his roots, since he can’t even deign to appear at an event organized to support his home colony.”

Muscles quiver under Heero’s fingertips, a shiver of rage rocking Duo’s small frame. “Listen, lady,” he snarls, all of the polish and civility stripped from his voice. “I am not gonna let some rich women paw at me an’ drool all over me, even if it is for charity. I am not for sale, an’ I’ll be damned if I’ll let you shame me into this.”

A new voice timidly pipes up. “Is it because you’re gay?”

Duo throws up his hands in exasperation and smothers a curse. “Oh for… yes. You’re absolutely right. I don’t like women. Not as my dates, not in my space, and certainly not in my bed.”

A scandalized mutter runs through the crowd, a hum a speculation rising. Heero catches bits and pieces of the scattered conversations. “Just for attention…” “-convenient excuse.” “…couldn’t possibly…” “…just faking it.” Duo is still shaking beneath his hands, a tremble that is nearly becoming visible to the gathered media presence. His fists are clenched tightly enough that Heero spots blood welling up around his fingertips, where his nails cut crescent moons into his palms.

“You’ve never been seen with a man before,” one person finally ventures.

Duo shifts just enough to give Heero a single, pleading glance. His violet eyes are dark with anxiety, pale face drawn with strain. His hand opens, slipping around Heero’s, smearing ribbons of crimson across both their palms. _Help me_ , he mouths.

Heero never once considered that he’d be asked to come to a rock star’s rescue. Never once thought he’d be put in the position of having anything to offer to anyone, let alone a creature as magnificent as Duo Maxwell. _Now or never,_ he tells himself, as he swallows a jolt of terror and eases into Duo’s space. He sucks in a deep breath, laces his hands through the silken mahogany braid, and tugs Duo’s lips down to his. He vaguely hears a shriek of alarm from the crowd before the heat swamps him.

He’s never kissed a man, so he doesn’t have a point of comparison, but the sensation of the braided man’s lips on his blows every other experience out of the water. Duo’s arm tangles around his waist, pinning their bodies together, and his other hand tips Heero’s chin up. The rock star takes control of the kiss, nipping and teasing at his lower lip, sending pulses of molten desire twining through his veins. His fingers tighten in Duo’s hair and the other man hums against his lips, tongue darting out to trace the seam of Heero’s mouth. Heero parts his lips, ignorant of his breathless lungs, uncaring of their audience. Duo’s tongue darts into his mouth for just a moment, tasting of pineapples and coconut rum, before he reluctantly withdraws. “Jesus, ‘Ro,” he gasps against Heero’s lips.

Heero tucks his head against Duo’s shoulder, a flush of embarrassment rising on his cheekbones as Duo breathes a reverent ‘thank you’ into his ear. The braided man’s arm is still tucked protectively around his waist as he flips his head, hair twitching against Heero’s ear. “That enough seeing for y’all?” he drawls sassily.

The reporters murmur a reluctant assent. Duo cuts them off before they can resume their questioning. “If you’ll excuse us, we’re off to celebrate.”

Duo laces his fingers through Heero’s, drawing him away from the lingering mass of people. Heero peers shyly up through his hair, pleased to note the heady color tinting Duo’s cheeks. Out of sight of the crowd, Duo slows to a crawl, finally stopping. He turns to Heero, eyebrows bracketed together, eyes dark with concern.

“Listen…” he begins, and then pauses, raising a hand to scratch at the back of his head. A nervous habit, Heero surmises, as Duo avoids his curious gaze. “I’m sorry that had ta happen… I really hope it didn’t ruin anything. I was kinda lookin’ forward to havin’ a new friend…”

“Why would it ruin anything?” Heero inquires, continuing under his breath. “That was incredible.”

“Well in that case, I dunno why one more would hurt…”

He slides one hand behind Heero’s neck, capturing him by the nape, and locks their lips together. Away from the eyes of the public, it’s a completely different game, and stars explode behind Heero’s eyelids as Duo’s talented tongue slips into his mouth. His hands drift to Duo’s waist, partially to revel in the play of muscles beneath his clothing and partially because his knees have turned liquid and unreliable.

Duo’s free hand slips beneath his shirt, splaying against the skin of his lower back. A noise suspiciously close to a whimper escapes Heero’s mouth and Duo swallows it, grinning into their kiss. Duo’s fingers against his bare skin are scorching, the heat arrowing straight to his pleasure centers, and it’s a struggle not to writhe beneath his touch. The hand at his spine urges him closer, and Heero almost collapses in his arms as Duo rolls his hips forward, surging hardness meeting his more than interested bulge.

Duo tears away, leaving them both panting and struggling to control raging libidos. He presses his forehead against Heero’s, breath drifting across his lips, and exhales a curse. “Fuck, you’re good at that. We gotta stop before I break my rule.”

 

* * *

 

 

There’s an awkward silence in the limo, Duo sprawled across one bench seat as Heero sits stiffly upright in the furthest seat away. Duo purses his lips in concern as Heero stares out the window, the frown deepening as Heero raises his hand to rub his lips. It’s the third time in as many minutes that he’s repeated the absent gesture, and Duo knows well enough what he’s thinking about. Fuck, does he know what Heero’s thinking about. He ghosts a hand down, palming himself in an attempt to adjust his half-hard cock. He’d been anticipating a take-one-for-the-team cover and instead had gotten one helluva mind-blowing kiss.

But now… the pap had no doubt taken a couple dozen pictures of that first kiss, pictures that were probably already circulating… and Heero would be snapped up by the media. Whatever ‘normal’ he used to know had been obliterated by the first touch of Duo’s lips. And, right on cue, the phone rings. He eyes it as he would a venomous snake, seeing Peacecraft’s mug flashing across the screen. Thumbing the answer key, he lifts it to his ear.

“’Lo?”

“Duo. What the hell was that?!”

He winces, catches Heero’s intrigued gaze, and jabs the volume down. “I hadta tell ‘em something, Zechs. They were up my ass about that damn auction.”

“So instead of coming up with a rational explanation, you tell them that you’re gay and destroy any chance of recovery by kissing a man _in front of them_.” Peacecraft pauses. “Where did you find that man, anyway? Model? Back-up dancer?”

Duo’s cheeks crimson and he ducks his head, lowering his voice. “Contest winner.”

“Oh really, Mr. ‘I hate contests and please don’t give out backstage passes’?”

“It’s not like that,” Duo grumbles, hearing the suggestive tone in his manager’s voice. “We’re just friends.” _Line of the century_ , a voice in his head snarls. _Feed him another cliché, will ya?_ Heero shoots him a sharp glance, disappointment heavy in those ocean blue eyes, and then twists his body toward the window. A pang of irritation sweeps through Duo. _Now is not the time to hafta deal with this shit._

“I have to go do damage control. But I doubt they’ll ask you to do that auction after the stunning outburst tonight. I’ll at least try to formulate a polite refusal for you.”

“Thanks, Zechs. I owe ya one.”

“More than one, Duo, but I’ll let it slide,” Peacecraft replies, his voice warmer now.

The phone disconnects with a high-pitched beep and Duo shoves it back into his pocket. He steels himself for the worst and casts his eyes across the dim interior of the car. “Heero?” His words are tentative, feeling out the potentially shark-infested waters between them.

Heero’s shoulders curl in as if prepared to defend against a blow. The face he turns to Duo is carefully blank, the kind of controlled neutrality that politicians wear. “I had a nice time tonight,” he offers in a bland voice. _Nice?_ Duo’s internal voice winces. _This is worse than I figured._ “But I’m tired now. I think I just want to go home. We’re nearly there now, if you wouldn’t mind pausing for a moment to let me out.”

Duo signals the driver to pull over, wishing he could find the words to repair the tattered lines of communication between them. All of those lyrics, all of those stunning, world famous songs… all he could fathom to offer was, “I had a good time tonight, Heero.”

Heero pushes open the door, swinging his booted feet out onto the curb. He glances back, offering a tiny, obviously fake smile. “Yeah.”

That’s all. Yeah. Not, I had a good time too. Not, you’re the best fucking kisser I’ve ever met. Not, you totally rocked my world. Not, I’d like to see you again sometime. Maybe the stab of pain jutting into Duo’s chest is because he would say all of that to Heero if the other man were receptive. He slams his feet onto the floor, dropping his elbows to his knees, and bows his head into his hands. As the door is closing, he grasps at straws and throws his final ‘remember me, please’ attempt at Heero’s departing back. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad I met you.”

The limo door shuts with painful gentleness. He would have preferred a slam.

 

* * *

 

 

Heero turns the key in the door to his apartment, shuffling wearily into the darkened space. The walk home had calmed his rapidly circling thoughts, soothed the raging hurt. It was funny to him how, after all this time, he still had the ability to be   wounded so easily. Not often, not by many people… but when he made the mistake of letting people past his barriers, it almost always resulted in pain. He toes off his boots, flinging them across the room to hear the satisfying, wall-denting thud. Damn useless things. People shouldn’t wear boots unless they need them.

He snarls to himself, the harsh noise dragging against the barren white walls and drifting back to him. Stalking to his room, he strips off the unnaturally tight pants and nearly pops a button trying to feverishly remove the shirt. Settling into his favorite pair of sweatpants, letting them hang low on his hips, he flops into his computer chair. As he taps idly at the keys, focusing himself on work to the exclusion of all else, he feels the agitation melt away. This is where he belongs. Here, alone, with his computer. Here where no one can hurt him.

 

* * *

 

 

Quatre peers around Duo when he bounces up to the booth, all manic energy and post-show excitement. “Duo! What took you so long? And where’s Heero?”

The mask slips from Duo’s face for a second before he recovers. He shakes his head in mock-shame. “Security fucked up an’ let the pap into the building before we were out. They grilled me pretty good an’ Heero got all shook up. He went home… couldn’t keep up with good ol’ Shinigami an’ his crew!”

Quatre and Trowa exchange a knowing glance, emerald and aquamarine fixing on him simultaneously. His grin falters a bit under their examination, covered by the appearance of the waitress. Duo orders a round of shots, eyeing the doorway to VIP area. A crowd of people are gathering beyond the velvet rope, pointing at him and negotiating with the bouncer. The enormous guard is shaking his head, arms folded across his chest, insistent.

Quatre follows the line of vision. “Why are all of those people there, Duo?”

Duo scrubs at the back of his neck. “Weeeellllllll…. I mighta kinda sorta… Icameoutofthecloset.”

“Oh. That’s all? How’d they take it?”

“They didn’t believe me,” Duo mumbles sheepishly.

Quatre scans the mass of people, noticing the intense interest on their faces, the waving cameras and notepads. “So why are they gathered like piranhas in a feeding frenzy?”

“I proved it…” Quatre’s eyebrows creep up his face. Trowa sweeps his bang out of his face to stare incredulously at Duo with both eyes. “Heero kissed me.”

“Duo, that’s great!” Quatre exclaims, beaming like a proud parent. “But why isn’t he here, then?”

The smile vanishes from Duo’s face and he stares down at his drink, spinning it on the table. “Zechs called. PR nightmare an’ all that. I told him that Heero was jus’ a friend and nothin’ to worry about.”

“So?” Trowa prompts.

“Heero was in the car.”

Quatre sucks in a breath, empathy written all over his face. Trowa drops a supportive hand on Duo’s shoulder as the three sit in silence for a moment. Duo slugs back the remainder of his drink, summoning Shinigami from beneath the wave of disappointment, and flings his braid behind his shoulder.

“No worries! Was just a kiss. ‘s not like I cared or anything.”

 

* * *

 

 

An irritating beep rouses him from slumber and Heero cracks open bleary eyes, whole body protesting. It had been a terrible idea to let himself drift off here, slumped over the arm of his computer chair, limbs tangled around the plush cushioning. A terrible idea, but every time he’d gotten up from the keyboard, the thoughts of Duo had come flooding back… the gleam of his hair under the spotlights, the velvet rumble of his lyrics, the intoxicating touch of his lips… and then the oh-so casual tone as he muttered ‘we’re just friends.’

_What did you expect?_ He grumbles disgustedly at himself. _A rockstar wouldn’t look twice at a computer programmer. What could you possibly have to offer him?_

He stalks into the bathroom, stiff-legged and annoyed, and turns the knob in the shower. Water jets out of the shower-head, steam rising around him, and he sighs softly as he strips off his sweatpants. Ducking his head under the spray, letting the almost-too-hot water soak him, he reminds himself once again that he needs to forget that he ever met Duo Maxwell.

“It was a memorable night, and that’s all,” he grimly tells the chill white tiles of the shower.

He’s toweling off after the shower when the obnoxious beep from his phone catches his attention again. He swears under his breath as he recalls that the phone was what woke him up, and he’d neglected to check it before thoughts of Duo had driven him to the shower. He wraps the towel around himself, scurrying in a rather undignified manner out to the bedroom. The towel slips low on his hips as he scans the room for the phone, and he grabs the end just as it begins to fall. His phone beeps again, indignant, and his eyes catch on the discarded pile of clothes on the floor. He nudges them with his feet until his toes catch on the weight of the offending object, and he bends down to pick up the jeans he’d worn to the concert.

A frown creases his brow, and he removes the phone from his back pocket, toeing the clothing into the closet. He shoves the pants and boots into a corner, snapping the wrinkles out of the shirt before tossing it into a laundry basket. The shirt, at least, he will wear again. Though… he picks up the sleeve, sniffing at the cuff, and then flings the fabric away from him. Maybe he won’t. Duo’s scent clings to the fibers of the shirt, mocking him. He buries the shirt under his sweatpants.

His phone beeps, a fourth time, and he jumps as it vibrates against his hand. It rings abruptly, startling him further, and he answers it with a swipe of his thumb.

“Yuy.”

“Heero, it’s Relena. You mentioned possibly getting together for lunch today. Would you like to meet me somewhere, or do you have other plans?”

“Today would be fine, Relena. I would enjoy seeing you.”

“Wonderful. Would that new Japanese fusion restaurant work for you? I believe it’s called Nataku... Wufei mentioned it the other day. It’s right around the corner from Alliance.”

Heero checks his watch. “Twenty minutes?”

“That should be fine. See you then, Heero.”

He hangs up, staring down at the phone. Unusually formal, even for Relena. Something must be bothering her… he dresses quickly, pausing by the mirror to fix the collar of his shirt. He scuffs a hand through his almost-dry hair, succeeding only in messing it up further. Relena is constantly trying to fix it for him, but he can’t be bothered with hair products when he could spend the money on computer parts instead. Giving his reflection a ‘who cares?’ shrug, he snatches his keys off the counter and heads for the door.

 

* * *

 

 

He idly eyes his reflection in the front window of Nataku, enjoying the way that the dragon etched into the glass seems to twine around him. The scents drifting out the front door are delicious, and his stomach rumbles eagerly at the idea of food. Relena’s reflection appears beside his and he turns to greet her.

“Hello, Relena.” He leans in to give her a friendly hug, enjoying the pleasant smell of her perfume. She’s one of the few women that he will willingly hug, and one of the few women whose perfume is not overwhelmingly floral.

She smiles at him, but her eyes remain dark and worried. “Hello, Heero. Shall we go in?”

He holds the door open for her, the edges of his mouth tilting down as she extends another tiny smile toward him. A line of tension rises along his jaw, muscles clenching uncertainly. Something is very wrong here. He pulls out her chair, waiting for her to sit before easing it back toward the table. She folds her hands neatly in her lap and waits, attentive, as he sinks into his own seat.

“How was the concert, Heero?”

“I enjoyed it… I should have accompanied you to the benefit dinner, though.” He drops his eyes to the white tablecloth, fiddling with the edge of his napkin.

“Why’s that?” Her voice has a strange undertone to it, and his shoulders tense.

“The backstage meeting didn’t … It wasn’t what I expected. I guess it was alright,” he finishes noncommittally.

She pulls a scrap of paper out of her purse, sliding it across the table to him. He glares at it as if that will make him able to see its contents, finally reaching out to flick it open. Immediately his hand slams down on top of the page, a gunshot echo flying across the restaurant. People turn to stare, eyes wide and curious. Relena places a soothing hand on top of his own, gesturing to the onlookers that there is no need for observation. The quiet murmur of conversation resumes and Heero lifts his eyes to meet Relena’s.

“Where did you get this?” he whispers between bloodless lips.

She taps the back of his hand with her fingers for a few seconds, pursing her lips in contemplation. “It’s all over the internet, Heero. And the newsstands as well, for that matter.”

He glares between his fingers at the picture. That lithe figure. Those tight, tattered jeans that should be illegal in civilized countries. The skintight black shirt. And him, hands clutching greedily at silky chocolate locks, lips pasted across the other man’s face.

_This is where people would normally say fuck_. “I’m sorry, Relena,” he says quietly.

She tries to force a smile onto her face, but Heero catches the brightness in her eyes. This hurt her, somehow. “I wish you’d told me. That you… weren’t interested in women.”

He swallows around the uncomfortable lump in his throat, feeling like someone’s placed a heavy hand along his collarbones. “I didn’t think that I was interested in men either, to be honest. I honestly believed I was asexual, or broken, or something.”

She twirls the stem of her wine glass, eyes trained on the glitter of light through the shimmering crystal. “I always thought it was just me.”

He reaches out, wraps his fingers around her delicate hands. “No, Relena. Not at all. You are a wonderful woman. Possibly the most wonderful I’ve ever met. And, since I’m being completely honest, there have been many times where I wish I could have chosen you. But I … I wouldn’t have been able to give you all of myself, and you deserve better. You deserve someone who can love you completely.”

A tear slides down her face, then, and she brushes it away, lifting her chin toward the ceiling. Her eyelashes spike against her cheeks, eyes swimming with liquid, and for a brief, shining moment Heero thinks maybe… she’s so stunning, maybe he could change… and then his eyes fall to the table, to the image of Duo wrapped in his arms, and the illusion shatters. No one could compete with that, and he’d meant every word. Relena deserved a fairytale ending, with a prince who would love her with every fiber of his being… Heero wasn’t that prince. He wasn’t even royalty.

Just an abandoned orphan from L1, an orphan who no one wanted.

An orphan who spent his life searching for a princess, only to find that it wasn’t a princess he was trying to find at all. His maiden in a tower turned out to be a feral, leather-clad rockstar with a yard-long braid and a battered guitar. Out of the two of them, Heero was nearly certain that Duo wasn’t the one who needed rescuing.

Heero discreetly eyes her out of the corner of his vision, watches her dab the tears from her lower lids and then, with a furtive glance around the restaurant, scrub at her nose and salt-stiff cheeks. She clears her throat, somehow sounding perfectly composed, and he summons the gentlest smile he possesses onto his face.

“I hope this hasn’t ruined our friendship, Relena. I truly do cherish your companionship.”

The answering quirk of her lips is slight, but truer than her earlier attempts at masking her emotions. “No, this hasn’t changed anything. I’m glad that we can be honest with each other now.”

He exhales a breath he doesn’t realize he has been holding. It was difficult for him to make friends, let alone lose them. It didn’t happen often, because he didn’t call many people friends, but when it did happen it violently tilted his worldview. As small as his inner circle is, miniscule really, he couldn’t emotionally afford for it to shrink further. The waiter appears next to their table, emitting a quiet noise to gather their attention. After he has received their orders and vanished off to the kitchen, Heero places a hand protectively over the scrap of paper.

“Would you mind if I kept this?” And he attempts to keep the blush from his face, an effort that he honestly believes succeeded until the mischievous tilt of Relena’s smile proves otherwise.

“Of course I don’t mind. Not that you’ll need it… every woman in Alliance will be at your desk tomorrow.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll appear beside my desk like a guardian angel and run interference?” He asks hopefully, tucking the picture into his pocket.

“Not a chance,” she responds, and chuckles at his expression of dismay. “Just call it karma for letting me find out with the rest of the world.”

 

* * *

 

 

Heero is just stepping out of the restaurant, bidding a pleasant goodbye to Relena, when the first cheerful note sounds from his phone. He opens the door to her father’s car, bending down to kiss her cheek. His phone vibrates angrily in his pocket as he shuts the door, waving to the chauffer that she’s set to go. He lifts the phone to his ear.

“Yuy.”

“I’m sorry, who did you say this was?” Wufei’s incredulous voice echoes over the line and he winces, beginning the leisurely stroll back to his apartment.

“Is this about what I think it is?” Heero asks quietly, dodging a newsstand. He’s not quite ready to see his face plastered over every celebrity gossip rag on the rack.

“If ‘it’ is the fact that you _kissed the most famous rock star in existence right now, in public_ , then yes, that is what this is about.”

Heero can’t decide if his friend sounds irritated or proud. “Chang, I can explain…”

“What is there to explain? This is awesome. You’re finally developing a social life, not only a social life but a _relationship,_  and let me tell you, it’s going to be more than you counted on.”

“Slow down, proud papa. It’s not like that,” Heero cautions, Duo’s murmur drifting through his mind. He mentally swats the reminder away and focuses on the phone.

“What is it like then? Shinigami has never been seen _with_ anyone before, let alone been seen making out with someone,” Wufei reports, sounding inordinately pleased with himself.

“We weren’t making out… wait, no one? You can’t possibly expect me to believe that a celebrity is celibate,” Heero stutters, stumbling over the fact that, not only did he kiss Duo Maxwell on camera but he is the _only person_ to ever kiss Duo Maxwell on camera.

“If he’s not then he is damn sneaky about his rendezvous,” Wufei comments. “They’ve been trying to confirm his sexuality for years and have always failed because he’s literally never with anyone. Other than his bandmates... do you think-?”

“No,” Heero states flatly. “And I don’t want to think about that, either. Thanks though. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He vaguely hears Wufei mutter ‘prude’ as the call disconnects. As he rounds a corner, he catches a woman glancing up from a rack of magazines. She notices him, whips her head back to the glossy covers, and then spins her gaze back to him. Her eyes grow comically wide, and one hand rises to cover her gaping mouth as the other shakily twitches in his direction.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grunts, annoyed. “I kissed Shinigami. It was just a kiss. It’s not like it means anything.”


	5. Crash My Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duo Maxwell is Shinigami, the L2 orphan who was swept off the streets of his home colony to become the lead singer and guitarist of the chart topping rock band, Gundam Pilots. Heero Yuy is a successful but reclusive computer programmer, happy to live out his days in relative solitude. When Heero's coworkers accidentally win him VIP tickets to a Gundam Pilots concert, what will Shinigami make of this handsome yet strangely reticent mystery?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay between updates! Hopefully this chapter makes up for the last one. ;)

Heero has done his best to be fully engrossed in work by the time 8:00 rolls around. A mountain of paperwork covers his desk, a host of programs open on his screens, fingers flying rapidly over the keys. Despite all of this, he can’t ignore the army of eyes surrounding his desk for long. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he muffles the annoyed noise trying to creep between his clenched teeth.

“Yes?” He bites off the word, hoping the tone of his voice will dissuade them.

“Is it true?” Noin bounces against his cubicle wall, barely able to contain her energy.

“Is what true?” he inquires flatly, eyes still fixed on his monitor.

“This picture isn’t photoshopped, is it? That’s really you?” A familiar image flaps over his screen, covering his work with a blood-searing capture of his now-famous kiss.

Giving up on ignoring the crowd, he slowly revolves in his chair until he is facing them. “Yes, it’s really me. And before you ask, it was a one-time coincidence, we are not involved in any way, and I am not going to have any further contact with him.”

Noin and Hilde sigh in dismay, some of their excitement fading. Heero is certain that they had been hoping to meet Shinigami, perhaps get him to sign some of their mountains of paraphernalia. Drake pops his head around the corner as the girls fade into the background.

“Hey man, we didn’t know you had game like that!” he crows, offering Heero a high five.

Heero indulges him only because he has found that it is easier to engage in normal forms of approval than to deal with the awkwardness of avoiding them. The man gives him a palm-stinging slap, a cheesy grin, and what is presumably intended to be a suggestive expression.

“Yeah, that’s awesome! I can’t believe I know the man who turned Shinigami gay,” Rufus comments, a bit star-struck.

Heero’s eyes narrow a touch at that last comment. “No one ‘turns’ anyone else gay, Rufus. Don’t be ignorant.”

Rufus shrugs off the reprimand and disappears back to his desk, muttering ‘still awesome, though’ under his breath. The crowd begins to reluctantly disperse, having confirmed the rumor of The Kiss, as they all seem to be calling it. Heero releases the breath he’d been holding, reaches out to graze fingers over the picture in front of him. He wonders absently what Duo is doing, what city they’re touring in tonight. His fingers hover over the keyboard, seconds away from answering his own questions. He catches himself before he begins typing and shakes his head, irritated.

“It was just a kiss. It didn’t mean anything.”

* * *

 

**_ Shinigami’s Ruse _ **

_The famous rock star has fooled the world once again. Although in a recent interview he claimed to be gay, he has not been seen with a man since that infamous kiss…_

**_ Rebel Without a Cause _ **

_Shinigami continues to refuse to participate in A Home For Every Child’s charity auction. It seems that he has forgotten his home colony, hiding under the thinly veiled excuse of not being interested in women. Despite this, rumors of the L2 orphan having a boyfriend appear to be false…_

**_ No Homo _ **

_Shinigami was recently seen entering a hotel room with a woman, an anonymous source reports. Although there is no photographic evidence, it is clear that the Gundam Pilot’s lead singer was lying to the press with that faked make-out session…_

* * *

 

Milliardo Peacecraft throws yet another newspaper onto the desk between them. Duo doesn’t bother to lean over, knowing that it will say exactly what the others did. He’s not gay, it’s a fake, he’s sold out, he doesn’t care about L2. Peacecraft steeples his fingers together, staring at Duo over the tips.

“What are we going to do about this, Duo?” He asks calmly, pressing his thumbs together.

The long-haired rock star leans back in his chair, propping spiked boots up on the corner of his manager’s desk. Peacecraft winces as the spikes gouge yet another line on the finish of his desk. It’s a running joke between them that he has to get the desk sanded and resurfaced every year because of those damn boots. Duo tucks his hands behind his head, scratching at the base of his braid.

“I dunno, Zechs. What can we do? I can’t magic a fuckbuddy outta nowhere,” Duo drawls, staring up at the ceiling.

“I suppose we could hire someone. It’s not ideal though. People will do anything for money,” Milliardo muses.

“And I don’t wanna have ta deal with some dumb slab of muscle cooing over me. Fuck. Why do they need proof?”

The blonde man lifts his shoulders in an elegant shrug, adjusting the jacket of his suit as he does. “They need proof because you put it out there as truth. There’s no evidence that you prefer men.”

“There’s none that I fuck women, either,” Duo snorts.

Peacecraft flips idly through one of the magazines, glossy pages filled with scathing criticism of Duo’s confession. Not one reporter is willing to believe that the rock star is homosexual without proof of an ongoing relationship. An ongoing relationship, not a one-night stand. It would be impossibly simple to fabricate evidence of Duo taking an attractive man to a hotel room for a drunken romp. That image had issues as well – people reacted as badly to the virgin as they did to the slut. It wouldn’t do for Duo to present himself as a casual bedwarmer, not when part of his appeal was the appearance of a clean-cut L2 orphan overcoming a difficult past.

He pauses at the end of the article, where the million dollar question is presented beside a familiar picture. _“Who is this mysterious man? And what happened to him?”_ His lips twist in an intrigued motion and he slides the magazine across the desk to Duo.

“What about this man?”

Duo drags the picture into his lap, fingers sliding over the sleek image. A hint of a smile touches his lips, and his hand drifts almost absently to his face. “What about him?”

“Young and attractive, yet non-descript. Out of the public eye, and from what I heard, not overly fond of the partying lifestyle. And, even better, the focal point of all of this nonsense.”

Duo traces the edges of the photo, a ghost of that kiss scraping over his jaw. Though months have passed since that New York show, he can’t shake the memory of Heero’s lips against his own. “Yeah, that might be nice. But I dunno if he’d even be down for that. An’ how are ya going to explain my three month dry spell?”

Milliardo snorts, well-aware of the fact that Duo’s abstinence has been considerably longer than three months. For an internationally renowned rock star, Duo has given him startlingly few PR issues – no drugs, no drunken escapades, no bed-hopping. He keeps his nose clean and his body immaculate, to the point where Peacecraft can’t even recall Duo’s last relationship. “Budding relationships need privacy without the pressure of being constantly under watch. At least that’s what we’ll tell them if Heero agrees to the arrangement. Are you going to contact him, or shall I?”

“Um… you might wanna do it. He wasn’t too happy with me after the show.” Duo ducks his head, fiddling with a fraying patch on his jeans.

Peacecraft taps in a few notes on his tablet, bringing up the calendar with the tour dates. “If you’d prefer to seal the deal in person, we’ll be in the New York area in a few weeks. You’ll have to make a special side-trip into the city from the concert venue. What would you like to do?”

Duo waves a negligent hand. “Plan away, Zechsy. If he’s there, I’ll convince him.” 

* * *

 

Heero is working through yet another lunch hour when his phone buzzes angrily from the desk drawer. He tucks it between his ear and his shoulder, fingers still clicking across the keyboard. “Yuy.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Yuy. This is Milliardo Peacecraft, the manager for the Gundam Pilots. We spoke around three months ago regarding the contest.” The voice in his ear is smooth, cultured, vaguely familiar.

Heero’s hands freeze over the keys, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. _Duo_. His heart stutters, a flash flood of heat rushing through him. “Don’t tell me that I was entered in another contest,” he grumbles.

A short chuckle drifts over the line. “Not quite. Mr. Yuy, I have a proposal for you, but Shinigami would prefer to discuss it with you in person. Would you be amenable to a meeting over dinner in, say, two weeks?”

“I was under the impression that he wasn’t interested in seeing me further,” Heero answers quietly, hand drifting to the folded piece of paper tucked beneath his monitor stand.

Even at work, Duo wasn’t far from his mind. He knew it was probably just infatuation, the kind of affection that any layperson would feel when enraptured by the glow of a superstar. It didn’t stop him from keeping the picture of the two of them together, and it certainly didn’t keep a certain long-haired rock star out of his dreams.

“I understand that you two had a… misunderstanding at your last meeting. But he requested that I set this up for him.”

Heero’s blood chills as he sits back in his chair, a throbbing ache starting behind his eyes. It must be business, or Duo would have called him in person. _Maybe he wants me to provide plausible deniability. Say that the gay comment was a joke and I was just an overenthusiastic fan._ He rubs at his temples, trying to ease the pressure in his head. “Fine. I’ll see him. I would prefer you to email the arrangements, if possible,” Heero rasps.

Heero recites his email by rote, directing the man to his personal email. Although his computer has extra security set up, he wouldn’t put it past one of his over-ambitious coworkers to try and hack into his company email. He scrapes a hand over his face as the call ends, the phone falling from numbed fingers to land with a crack on the fake wood of his desk. He registers the noise with a pang of satisfaction, hoping that the infernal device has shattered. It seems to only cause issues for him as of late.

Wufei slides around the corner of his cubicle, props himself on the edge of the desk. He glances over Heero, noticing the stress lines bracketing Heero’s mouth. Pushing a bag over the surface to Heero’s elbows, he kicks at the chair with his toe.

“I brought you a sandwich. Want to talk about it?” Wufei offers quietly.

Heero picks his head up out of his hands and glances at the paper-wrapped sub. “The sandwich?”

Wufei nudges his chair indignantly. “Ass. You know what I meant.”

Heero is silent for a moment, meditatively unwrapping the sandwich. He sniffs appreciatively as the paper falls away. “Smells good.” Another pause. Heero finally meets Wufei’s eyes. “Duo wants to see me.”

“Duo?”

“Yeah, Du – oh. Shinigami. Shinigami wants to see me.” Heero shakes his head, still in disbelief. What could the rockstar finally want with him?

“You don’t seem happy about that, Heero,” Wufei observes.

“I just… what could he possibly want with me?” Heero questions, trying to control the hint of frustration from creeping into his voice.

The saucy grin warns Heero that he’s not going to like Wufei’s comment. “Maybe he wants some more of that lip action, eh?”

“It was just a kiss, Wufei. It didn’t even mean anything to him,” Heero snarls, the subject a little bit sensitive. Wufei holds up his hands in apology and Heero shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry. It’s … I’m just ready for everyone to forget about it. I guess I’ll see what he wants in a few weeks when he’s back in town.”

Wufei returns to his desk as Heero’s eyes slip back to the picture folded beneath his monitor. “And I’m not going to kiss him again.”

* * *

 

Duo scrapes sweaty palms on his jeans as he yanks open the door to the restaurant. The blast of chilled air that hits him is a welcome relief from the sweltering humidity outside. He tucks his collar closer to his face, neglecting to remove the aviators that hide his trademark purple eyes from the public. Between the sunglasses and the braid tucked into the back of the jacket, he’s safe from all but the most neurotic fans.

He breezes by the protesting maître d’, scanning the restaurant for a familiar head of messy brown hair. Spotting Heero sitting by the window, staring out at the heavy traffic, he strolls toward the other man. With his slow saunter, he has ample time to drink in the vision waiting for him. Heero sits stiffly in the chair, spine almost uncomfortably straight. His button down is neatly pressed, a deep burgundy color that sets off his tanned skin, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms.

Heero twists his wrist, glancing down at his watch, and then flicks an impatient gaze over his shoulder. His eyes catch on Duo and Duo’s steps falter as that intense gaze pins him. Letting an arrogant smile curl his lips, he regains his confident stride and flips his hand in a cheeky wave. He folds himself gracefully into the chair opposite Heero and gentles his smile.

“Heero. It’s good ta see you.”

“Hello, Duo. I’ve got to be honest, I wasn’t expecting to see you again,” Heero greets him.

“Yeah, Zechs mentioned somethin’ about that. Look… I didn’t mean anything by that convo you heard in the limo. I was jus’ tryin’ to cover our as- butts.” He coughs as he corrects his near curse, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Prolly can’t go ‘round cussing in a place like this. ‘M still not use ta eatin’ in fancy restaurants.”

Heero’s eyebrows are furrowed in confusion. “Why would you need to cover me? I’m just a computer programmer.”

“The pap aren’t gentle on people, ‘Ro. They’d eat ya alive if they thought it would make ‘em some money. ‘Specially since you were with me an’ they don’t have nothin’ on me. Well…” he trails off uncomfortably, dropping his eyes to the finely woven tablecloth.

“They didn’t use to have anything, you mean. Before the kiss. I’m sorry for causing you trouble, Duo. Is that what this is about?”

The waiter appears beside the table, formal and efficient. Duo glances quickly over the menu, hearing Heero order some type of Asian fusion dish that sounds healthy and nutritious. He orders a burger and a plate of steak fries, mouth already watering at the idea. Heero raises an eyebrow at him, eyeing his slender figure. He shrugs it off, handing his menu to the waiter.

“They try ta feed me rabbit food durin’ the tours… so I pig out whenever I can sneak away. But ta answer your question… yeah, that’s kinda what this is about.” Heero opens his mouth, another apology on his lips, but Duo flicks up a finger to stop him. “Wait a sec. I need ta figure out how I’m gonna word this. Um… Zechs thinks the pressure from the pap isn’t gonna go ‘way unless I find a person. To um, be with me.”

Duo knows by the heat flooding his cheeks that he’s blushing. How awkward is this conversation? _No way in hell Heero’s gonna agree to date me after that. I sound like a 12 year old askin’ a girl to the school dance. Fuck. Might as well slip him a note that says “do u like me? Pick one: yes/no/maybe.”_

Heero’s mouth pops open and moves soundlessly for a minute. If Duo wasn’t so stressed about his answer, he might have been amused by seeing the Asian man this unhinged. Heero’s hand lifts, lands on his chest. “You want _me_ to be your… your beard?”

Duo snorts. “I don’t reckon it’s called a beard if you’re provin’ to everyone that I’m gay, ‘Ro. But yes. I want you.”

Heero swallows noticeably as Duo’s voice drops into a seductive purr. He inhales slowly, visibly composing himself, before he opens his mouth again. “What would that entail?”

Duo reels in his libido, clears his throat to bring his voice back to a publicly acceptable level. Sitting back in his chair, he laces his hands behind his head. “Nothin’ too serious. Come to a few shows, jus’ the ones ‘round here, be seen with me in public, ya know, that kinda stuff…”

Color floods Heero’s cheeks and he drops his eyes. A tiny smile curls Duo’s lips. Embarrassed Heero was adorable. Heero flicks a glance up at him, lips pressed together, “Would that… would I have to…”

“Whoa. No. You don’t hafta do anything you don’t wanna do. PDA is not parta this. Don’t worry, ‘Ro. ‘s all about what you want,” Duo assures him, offering him a comforting smile as he lifts his chin.

Heero laughs weakly, attempting to return Duo’s positive expression. Duo shoves down the pang of disappointment at Heero’s sigh of relief. He’d be hoping for more of those intoxicating kisses, but… he’d rather they were given willingly. Laying his hand over Heero’s, he wraps his fingers around the knuckles and squeezes encouragingly. “Say yes, ‘Ro. Please.” 

* * *

 “Say yes, ‘Ro. Please.”

Heero’s heart thumps crazily at the plea coming from that stunning face, at the heat of hands wrapped around his own. He shouldn’t agree. He already knows that it won’t end well, that he will be enraptured by the rockstar in a matter of weeks, while Duo will eventually end the arrangement and jump into a real relationship. He knows he should say no, but…

“Yes,” he murmurs, and his blood surges in his veins as Duo’s face lights up like Christmas morning.

“Thank you,” Duo breathes, in such a reverent tone of voice that it almost hurts to listen to.

Duo lifts Heero’s hands to his lips and presses a kiss to the knuckles, his breath ghosting across the skin. Goosebumps rise on Heero’s arms and he shifts in his chair. The waiter arrives with their food, though it seems like they ordered it years ago. With an apologetic wink, Duo releases his hands to focus on his burger. Grateful for the interruption, Heero stares down at his stir fry. The shock of the past twenty minutes has eradicated his appetite, but he picks up his fork out of courtesy.

He pokes at a snap pea, spearing it on the fork and chewing it slowly. Duo is happily devouring his less-than-healthy meal, occasionally pausing to lick ketchup off of his fingers. He pauses at one point in this process, watching Heero stir his vegetables with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“Why’d’ja order green stuff if ya don’t like it?” Duo teases, munching on a fry. “Here, eat this.”

He extends a fry toward Heero’s mouth, and Heero’s eyes cross as it nears his face. Duo’s grin is infectious, the sparkle in his eyes intoxicating, and Heero can’t find it in him to refuse. He opens his mouth, accepting the offering, and a pleased noise escapes his lips as the flavor hits his tongue. Duo swipes a bit of ketchup from Heero’s lower lip with his thumb, popping the digit into his mouth to lick it clean.

Heero takes a deep breath. Keeping this arrangement strictly friendly is going to be extremely difficult. Merely being in Duo’s presence is like a narcotic for his sex drive, and his personality is just as alluring. He’s in serious emotional danger here, and Duo doesn’t have a clue how fast the seemingly untouchable Heero Yuy is going to fall.

 _You picked the wrong guy, Duo… you’re looking for a no-strings-attached convenience, and I’m just like every other person in the world. I can’t help it if you’re magnetic. Anyone with an ounce of taste would fall for you._  

* * *

 

They stand outside the restaurant, Duo’s fingers looped loosely around his own. Duo swings their joined hands back and forth, his manic energy translating into a playful gesture. Heero wonders absently if this pause, this charming little scene in the middle of a city sidewalk, is for the benefit of the invisible but undoubtedly present photographers when Duo chuckles a bit self-consciously.

“I don’t wanna leave. I had a good time with you… and I dunno when Imma be able to get back into town. Um… can I call you?”

A tiny grin curls Heero’s lips at the rock star’s hesitant tone. Though Relena has sought his attention for years, it’s a novel and intoxicating sensation to have someone return his interest. He squeezes Duo’s hand gently, extricates his phone from his pocket. He hands the device to the braided man, who reluctantly releases his grip to type two-handed. Heero leans over as the frantic tapping continues, curious as to what novel Duo is writing on his phone. Duo leans away from him, grinning mischievously.

“Nuh uh… it’s a surprise for later. Ya know, when you’re layin’ in bed thinkin’ about me,” Duo teases, tipping down his sunglasses to wink at Heero.

Heero sighs indulgently, grazing his fingers down Duo’s arm. Duo glances up in surprise, and Heero mouths ‘is this okay?,’ his fingers stilling with hesitation. Duo’s answering smile is brilliant, deeper than any expression he’s seen on the rock star’s face, and an unexpected heat puddles in his stomach. It’s unfamiliar, the seeping warmth in his gut. Not lust, but… contentment. Unadulterated happiness.

Duo tugs him into a hug, arms slipping around his body. He vaguely registers his phone being pushed into his back pocket, attention riveted to the intoxicating scent of Duo’s hair, the tickle of the braid against the tip of his nose, the hardness of Duo’s toned body against his own. He tilts his hips away from the braided man as his interest begins to show, not wanting to betray his more-than-friendly interest.

“Thank you,” Duo whispers, breath against his ear waking his libido full force.

They break apart, suddenly recalling that they’re in the middle of a crowded sidewalk, Heero abruptly reminded that this is a manner of convenience, that he can’t get too caught up in the fantasy. But when Duo takes his hand, an alarmingly tender twist on his lips, eyes shining with what can only be affection, everything in Heero yearns for this make-believe to come true.

“Heero,” he whispers, and his name is a prayer on Duo’s lips. “I’m so glad I met you.”

* * *

Later that night, as Heero flops bonelessly onto his bed, it occurs to him that he never read what Duo secretively wrote on his phone. Reaching out to his nightstand, he grabs his phone, stretching out once more against the chilled cotton sheets. A dark voice crawls into his ear and laughs snidely, reminding him of his place. Duo is an internationally famous rock star. A man who could have anyone he wanted, celebrity or otherwise, with a crook of his finger. And he is a computer programmer who’s never managed a successful relationship, who repeatedly repels the one woman who’s shown any persistent interest in him. They have nothing in common.

_What if I don’t want to read this? What if it is a list of rules, a list of times I can contact him. What if it’s a reminder that he’ll call me, because I’m not supposed to act like he’s my boyfriend? What if this is some sort of fake relationship pre-nup, where I have to agree never to write a tell-all?_

He shakes off the ‘what ifs’, realizing that he could continue all night, picking apart every second of their interactions, searching for clues that Duo is interested in him as a façade and nothing more. He hardly knows him. The world knows him, knows the front that he displays at concerts and the polished veneer that is captured by the media. But Heero doesn’t _know_ him – doesn’t know what his dreams are, what nightmares stir him from sleep. Doesn’t know his favorite food or what color his bedroom walls are painted. Doesn’t know where his house is or what feels like home to him, or if he wishes he’d never left L2.

Jerking himself out of the mire of confusion, he clenches his hand on the phone until the plastic creaks. Does he want to read this?

The phone flicks on, brilliant screen causing him to squint into the light. Thumbing open his contacts, he scrolls down until he finds Duo. A name, an address, a birthday (arbitrarily chosen, he’s heard, since no one knows when he was actually born), a set of phone numbers, a website. A sliver of disappointment works through him as he reads the information. He doesn’t know what he was hoping for… a message, maybe, or some sort of little known fact. Information about their upcoming first ‘date’, maybe.

He’s about to drop the phone back onto the table when the notes section appears on screen, with a tiny line of text beneath it. _Miss you already_. His heart leaps, an absurd grin bursting across his face. He opens up a message and begins to type.

* * *

In the limo, on the way back to the concert venue and the tour bus, Duo is stretched out across the backseat. His head is pillowed on his arm, braid snaking around his limbs to pile on his chest. His leather jacket is thrown over him, protecting him from the breeze through the open sunroof. Moonlight trickles through the window, drifting carelessly across his face, lashes kissing his cheeks, lips parted slightly. He’s a different creature in repose, somewhat innocent, washed clean of the bitterness and jadedness that taints every waking interaction.

He stirs as his phone buzzes against his hip, fumbles with sleepy hands at his pocket. An unregistered number appears on the screen, area code linked to the city he just departed from. A tired smile curls his lips and he swipes across the phone to bring up the message. Fever bursts in his chest, erasing the chill of the night air, and he rubs at the tightness in his chest. It’s unfamiliar to him, this longing, this desire to be utterly captivated by another human being.

He flicks a thank you at the crescent moon, grateful to whatever forces dragged Heero into his life. This might be a matter of convenience for now, but Duo has every intention of keeping Heero around as a real and permanent partner. Now, to get Heero to agree to stay… he glances back down at the message.

_Miss you too. Too soon?_

Maybe it won’t be as much of a challenge as he’s anticipating. If he can prevent the paparazzi and the frequently alarming life of stardom from scaring the Asian man off, he might just have his hands on a person worth keeping.

 _Never_.

He hits send with a decisive tap of his thumb and drifts back to sleep, the phone tucked tight to his chest. A pair of Prussian blue eyes eases him into slumber, with the ghost of a slow, teasing kiss grazed across his lips.

* * *

 

Heero wakes from dreams of mahogany locks tangled across his tanned skin to a tinny chirp from his phone. He stretches, lengthening his nude body along the twisted sheets, kicking the blankets off of his questing feet. His lips widen in an increasingly familiar pleasure. It’s not often that he wakes smiling, but he has the strangest hint that, with Duo in his life, it’s going to be a rather common occurrence.

He reaches for his phone, flicking it on to see the messages arrayed along the screen. A sassy text from Wufei, ever punctual. _What did loverboy want?_

A frown creases his face, temporarily obliterating the blanketing contentment. What does he say? He doesn’t enjoy keeping secrets from Wufei, as the other man has seen the darkest and brightest pieces of his past and present. Does he tell his best friend about Duo? Is he even allowed to do that? The thought of secrecy didn’t even occur to him last night, the idea that perhaps he would have to lead a double-life – one where he was Duo’s convenient and magically appearing boyfriend, and one where he was the computer programmer, going on with his daily life despite renewed interest from the media.

He lifts the phone to his ear, hearing the discordant ring. Wufei answers almost immediately, his usually level voice frantic. “Heero? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Wufei. It’s just a little bit complicated to answer you over text,” Heero reassures him.

Wufei’s huff of relief hisses through the phone. “My God, you scared the hell out of me. You never call. So what’s complicated? Loverboy want some sugar?”

“Please stop calling him that. It makes everything so much more awkward,” Heero grumbles. Wufei chuckles quietly. “It’s not funny, Chang.”

“Oh I’m Chang now? Must be in trouble. Are you going to tell me what happened or not?” Wufei inquires, entirely too amused by Heero’s irritation.

“I… I think I have a date. A real date, not whatever yesterday was,” Heero mutters.

Silence stretches over the soft static of the call. Heero pulls the phone away from his ear, checking that the call is still connected, then presses the device to his head again. “Wufei?”

“Yeah… I’m just trying to process that my socially incompetent best friend is dating a _rock star_. Seriously, Heero? Is this an April Fool’s joke?”

Heero shakes his head, forgetting for a moment that the man on the line can’t see him. “I wish it was, Wufei. That would make my life easier, to be sure.”

“Jeez,” Wufei breathes, nearly speechless with surprise. “So… are you his boyfriend or is this a cover-up?”

Heero silently curses his best friend’s intuition. Only Wufei would put the pieces of the picture and following media craze together and come up with the truth behind this web of lies. “You can’t tell anyone, but… I think it might be both. For me at least. For him it’s probably just convenient.”

“Be careful, Heero,” Wufei cautions. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

They hang up a short while later, Wufei’s warning ringing in his ears. Red flags are plastered along the tunnels of his mind, popping up with every action regarding Duo. Caution! Emotional pitfalls ahead. Beware of Long-Haired Rock Stars. Stop! Before it’s too late and you’re hip deep in a fake relationship that you wish was real.

With every fiber of his being, he is sharply aware that the situation with Duo is going to end in pain, at the very least. There’s a definite possibility that he might end up with his heart broken. And here he is, walking into the flames with arms wide open.

_Go ahead, Duo. Do your worst. I’m all yours._

He shakes his head, uncertain of just when he became so restless with his heart. The second message catches his eye, reminds him. He pops it open with a tap of his thumb, bites his bottom lip to smother the ridiculous grin manifesting on his face.

_Next concert in NYC in two months. Can’t wait that long to see you. Flying back next weekend. Please go to dinner with me?_


End file.
